. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 


SMITH    COLLEGE    STORIES 

TEN   STORIES   BY 
JOSEPHINE    DODGE   DASKAM 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
MCM 


Copyright,  1 900,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


D.  B.  Updike,  The  Merrymount  Press,  Boston 


T0  my  Mother,  who  sent  me  to  college, 
I  offer  these  impressions  of  it. 

J.  D.  D. 


PREFACE 

IF  these  simple  tales  serve  to  deepen  in  the 
slightest  degree  the  rapidly  growing  con 
viction  that  the  college  girl  is  very  much  like 
any  other  girl — that  this  likeness  is,  indeed, 
one  of  her  most  striking  characteristics — the 
author  will  consider  their  existence  abundantly 
justified. 

J.  D.  D. 


CONTENTS 

I 

'The  Emotions  of  a  Sub-guard  I 

II 

A  Case  of  Interference  37 

III 

Miss  Biddle  of  Bryn  Mawr  67 

IV 

Biscuits  ex  Machina  85 

V 

The  Education  of  Elizabeth  123 

VI 

A  Family  Affair  151 

VII 

A  Few  Diversions  205 

VIII 

The  Evolution  of  Evangeline  247 

IX 

At  Commencement  279 

X 

The  End  of  It  321 


THE   FIRST   STORY 


THE  EMOTIONS  OF  A  SUB-GUARD 


I 

THE  EMOTIONS  OF  A  SUB-GUARD 

f    •     ^HEODORA  pushed  through  the 

I          yellow  and  purple  crowd,  a  sea  of 

I          flags  and  ribbons  and  great  paper 

*         flowers,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  red 

and  green  river  that  flowed  steadily  in  at  the 

other  door,  and  felt  her  heart  contract.  What 

a  lot  of  girls  !  And  the  freshmen  were  always 

beaten — 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  cant  move !  You  '11  have 
to  wait,"  said  some  one.  Theodora  realized  that 
she  was  crowding,  and  apologized.  A  tall  girl 
with  a  purple  stick  moved  by  the  great  line 
that  stretched  from  the  gymnasium  to  the 
middle  of  the  campus,  and  looked  keenly  at 
Theodora.  "How  did  you  get  here?"  she 
asked.  "You  must  go  to  the  end — we  're  not 
letting  any  one  slip  in  at  the  front.  The  jam 
is  bad  enough  as  it  is." 

Theodora  blushed. "  I  'm — I  'm  on  the  Sub- 
team,"  she  murmured,  "and  I  'm  late.  I — " 

"Oh!"  said  the  junior.  "Wh/did  you 
come  in  here  ?  You  go  in  the  other  door.  Just 
pass  right  in  here,  though,"  and  Theodora, 
quite  crimson  with  the  consciousness  of  a  hun 
dred  eyes,  pulled  her  mackintosh  about  her 
and  slipped  in  ahead  of  them  all. 

c  i  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Oh,  here  9s  to  Ninety-ye/tow, 
And  her  praise  we'll  ever  tell — ohy 
Drink  her  down^  drink  her  downy  drink  her 
down,  down! 

the  line  called  after  her,  and  her  mouth  trem 
bled  with  excitement.  She  could  just  hear  the 
other  line: 

Oh,  here's  to  Ninety-green, 
She 's  the  finest  ever  seen  ! 

and  then  the  door  slammed  and  she  was  up 
stairs  on  the  big  empty  floor.  A  member  of  the 
decorating  committee  nodded  at  her  from  the 
gallery.  "Pretty,  isn't  it?"  she  called  down. 
"Beautiful!"  said  Theodora,  earnestly. 
One  half  of  the  gallery  —  her  half — was  all 
trimmed  with  yellow  and  purple.  Great  yel 
low  chrysanthemums  flowered  on  every  pillar, 
and  enormous  purple  shields  with  yellow  nu 
merals  lined  the  wall.  Crossed  banners  and 
flags  filled  in  the  intervals,  and  from  the  mid 
dle  beam  depended  a  great  purple  butterfly 
with  yellow  wings,  flapping  defiance  at  a  red 
and  green  insecl  of  indistinguishable  species 
that  decorated  the  other  side.  A  bevy  of  ushers 
in  white  duck,  with  boutonnieres  of  English 
violets  or  single  American  beauties,  took  their 
places  and  began  to  pin  on  crepe  paper  sun- 

[a] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

bonnets  of  yellow  or  green,  chattering  and 
watching  the  clock.  A  tall  senior,  with  a  red 
silk  waist  and  a  green  scarf  across  her  breast, 
was  arranging  a  box  near  the  centre  of  the 
sophomore  side  and  practising  maintaining 
her  balance  on  it  while  she  waved  a  red  baton. 
She  was  the  leader  of  the  Glee  Club,  and  she 
would  lead  the  sophomore  songs.  Theodora 
heard  a  confused  scuffle  on  the  stairs,  and  in  a 
few  seconds  the  galleries  were  crowded  with 
the  rivers  of  color  that  poured  from  the  en 
trance  doors.  It  seemed  that  they  were  full 
now,  but  she  knew  that  twice  as  many  more 
would  crowd  in.  She  walked  quickly  to  the 
room  at  the  end  of  the  hall  and  opened  the 
door.  Beneath  and  all  around  her  was  the  hum 
and  rumble  of  countless  feet  and  voices,  but  in 
the  room  all  was  still.  The  Subs  lounged  in  the 
window-seats  and  tried  to  act  as  if  it  was  n't 
likely  to  be  any  affair  of  theirs :  one  little  yel 
low-haired  girl  confided  flippantly  to  her 
neighbor  that  she'd  "only  accepted  the  po 
sition  so  as  to  be  able  to  sit  on  the  platform 
and  be  sure  of  a  good  place."  The  Team  were 
sitting  on  the  floor  staring  at  their  captain, 
who  was  talking  earnestly  in  a  low  voice — 
giving  directions  apparently.  The  juniors  who 
coached  them  opened  the  door  and  grinned 

[3] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

cheerfully.  They  attached  great  purple  stream 
ers  to  their  shirt-waists,  and  addressed  them 
selves  to  the  freshmen  generally. 

"Your  songs  are  great!  That  'Alabama 
Coon*  one  was  awfully  good  !  You  make  twice 
the  noise  that  they  do  !" 

The  Team  brightened  up.  "  I  think  they  're 
pretty  good,"  the  captain  said,  with  an  at 
tempt  at  a  conversational  tone.  "Er — when 
do  we  begin  ?" 

"The  Subs  can  go  out  now,"  said  one  of 
the  coaches,  opening  the  door  importantly. 
"  Now,  girls,  remember  not  to  wear  yourselves 
out  with  kicking  and  screaming.  You  're  right 
under  the  President,  and  he  '11  have  a  fit  if  you 
kick  against  the  platform.  Miss  Kassan  says 
that  this  must  be  a  quiet  game !  She  will  not 
have  that  howling !  It 's  her  particular  request, 
she  says.  Now,goon.  And  if  anything  happens 
to  Grace,  Julia  Wilson  takes  her  place,  and 
look  out  for  Alison  Greer — she  pounds  awfully. 
Keep  as  still  as  you  can  ! " 

They  trotted  out  and  ranged  themselves  on 
the  platform,  and  when  Theodora  got  to  the 
point  of  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  floor  to  gaze 
down  at  the  sophomore  Subs  across  the  hall 
in  front  of  another  audience,  the  freshmen 
were  off  in  another  song.  To  her  excited  eyes 

[4] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

there  were  thousands  of  them,  brilliant  in  pur 
ple  and  yellow,  and  shouting  to  be  heard  of 
her  parents  in  Pennsylvania.  A  junior  in  yel 
low  led  them  with  a  great  purple  stick,  and 
they  chanted,  to  a  splendid  march  tune  that 
made  even  the  members  of  the  Faculty  keep 
time  on  the  platform,  their  hymn  to  victory. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  yellow  is  on  top  ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  purple  cannot  drop  / 

We  are  Ninety-yellow  and  our  fame  shall  never  stop, 

'Rah,  'rah,  'rah,  for  the  freshmen! 

They  sang  so  well  and  so  loud  and  strong, 
shouting  out  the  words  so  plainly  and  keep 
ing  such  splendid  time,  that  as  the  verse  and 
chorus  died  away  audience  and  sophomores 
alike  clapped  them  vigorously,  much  to  their 
delight  and  pride.  Theodora  looked  up  for 
the  first  time  and  saw  as  in  a  dream  individ 
ual  faces  and  clothes.  They  were  packed  in 
the  running-gallery  till  the  smallest  of  babies 
would  have  been  sorely  tried  to  find  a  crevice 
to  rest  in.  A  fringe  of  skirts  and  boots  hung 
from  the  edge,  where  the  wearers  sat  pressed 
against  the  bars  with  their  feet  hanging  over. 
They  blotted  out  the  windows  and  sat  out  on 
the  great  beams,  dangling  their  banners  into 
space.  She  could  not  see  the  Faculty  behind 

[5] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

her,  but  she  knew  they  were  adorned  with 
rosettes,  and  that  the  favored  ones  carried 
flowers  —  the  air  where  she  sat  was  sweet  with 
violets.  A  group  of  ushers  escorted  a  small 
and  nervous  lady  to  the  platform :  on  the  way 
she  threw  back  her  cape  and  the  sophomores 
caught  sight  of  the  green  bow  at  her  throat. 

Oh,  here  '5  to  Susan  Beam, 
She  is  wearing  of  the  green, 

Drink  her  down,  drink  her  down,  drink  her  down, 
down,  down! 

they  sang  cheerfully. 

Just  behind  her  a  tall,  commanding  woman 
stalked  somewhat  consciously,  decked  with 
yellow  streamers  and  daffodils.  The  junior 
leader  consulted  a  list  in  her  hand,  frantically 
whispered  some  words  to  the  allies  around 
her  box,  and  the  freshmen  started  up  their 
tribute. 

Oh,  here's  to  Kath'rine  Storrs, 

Aught  but  yellow  she  abhors, 

Drink  her  down,  drink  her  down,  drink  her  down, 
down,  down! 

Miss  Storrs  endeavored  to  convey  with  her 
glance,    dignity,    amusement,    toleration    of 
harmless  sport,  and  a  repudiation  of  the  per 
sonality  involved  in  the  song;  but  it  is  to  be 
[6] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

doubted  if  even  she  was  satisfied  with  the  re 
sult.  Theodora  wished  she  had  seen  the  Presi 
dent  come  in.  She  had  been  told  how  he 
walked  solemnly  across  the  hall,  mounted  the 
platform,  unbuttoned  his  overcoat,  and  dis 
played  two  gorgeous  rosettes  of  the  conflict 
ing  colors — his  official  and  exclusive  privilege. 
And  she  had  heard  from  the  Team's  retreat 
the  thunder  of  applause  that  greeted  this  tra 
ditional  rite.  She  wondered  whether  he  cared 
who  won:  whether  he  realized  what  it  was  to 
play  against  a  team  that  had  beaten  in  its 
freshman  year. 

A  burst  of  applause  and  laughter  inter 
rupted  her  meditations.  She  felt  herself  blush 
ing — was  it  the  Team?  No:  the  sophomore 
Subs  were  escorting  to  the  middle  of  the  floor 
a  child  of  five  or  six  dressed  in  brightest  em 
erald  green :  a  child  with  a  mane  of  the  most 
remarkable  brick-red  hair  in  the  world.  She 
wore  it  in  the  fashion  of  Alice  in  Wonderland, 
and  it  grew  redder  and  redder  the  longer  one 
looked  at  it.  She  held  a  red  ribbon  of  pre 
cisely  the  same  shade  in  her  hand,  and  at  the 
middle  of  the  floor  the  sophomores  suddenly 
burst  away  from  her  and  ran  quickly  to  their 
seats,  revealing  at  the  end  of  the  ribbon  an 
enormous  and  lifelike  green  frog.  The  child 

[7] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

stood  for  a  moment  twisting  her  little  green 
legs  undecidedly,  and  then,  overcome  with 
embarrassment  at  the  appreciation  she  had 
evoked,  shook  her  flaming  locks  over  her 
face,  and  dragging  the  frog  with  her,  some 
times  on  its  side,  sometimes  on  its  head,  fled 
to  the  sophomores,  who  bore  her  off  in  tri 
umph. 

"They  got  her  in  Williamsburgh,"  said 
somebody;  "they  Ve  been  hunting  for  weeks 
for  a  red-haired  child,  and  that  frog  was  from 
the  drug  store — oh,  my  dear,  how  •perfectly 
darling!" 

Alone  and  unabashed  the  freshman  mas 
cot  took  the  floor.  He  was  perhaps  four  years 
old  and  the  color  of  a  cake  of  chocolate.  His 
costume  was  canary  yellow — a  perfect  little 
jockey  suit,  with  a  purple  band  on  his  arm 
adorned  with  Ninety-yellow's  class  numerals. 
He  dragged  by  a  twisted  cord  of  purple  and 
yellow  a  most  startling  plum-colored  terrier, 
of  a  shade  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea,  with 
a  tendency  to  trip  his  master  up  at  every  step. 
In  the  exact  middle  of  the  floor  the  mascot 
paused,  rolled  his  eyes  till  they  seemed  in 
danger  of  leaving  their  sockets,  and  then  at  a 
shrill  whistle  from  the  balcony  pulled  his  yel 
low  cap  from  his  woolly  head  and  made  a  deep 

[8] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

and  courtly  bow  to  his  patrons.  But  the  storm 
of  applause  was  more  than  he  had  been  pre 
pared  for,  and  with  a  wild  look  about  the  hall 
and  a  frantic  tug  at  the  cord  he  dragged  the 
purple  and  protesting  animal  to  a  corner  of 
the  room,  where  a  grinning  elder  sister  was 
stationed  for  his  comfort. 

Theodora's  heart  beat  high :  theirs  was  the 
best !  Everybody  was  laughing  and  exclaim 
ing  and  questioning;  the  very  sophomores 
were  shrieking  at  the  efforts  of  the  terrier  to 
drag  the  little  darkey  out  again;  one  member 
of  the  Faculty  had  laughed  himself  into  some 
thing  very  like  hysteria  and  giggled  weakly 
at  every  twitch  of  the  idiotic  purple  legs. 

"It  was  Diamond  Dyes,"  Theodora  heard 
a  freshman  just  above  call  out  excitedly,  "and 
Esther  Armstrong  thought  of  it.  They  dyed 
him  every  day  for  a  week — " 

The  mascot  and  the  dog  had  trotted  up 
again,  and  as  they  ran  back  and  the  animal 
gave  a  more  than  ordinarily  vicious  dart,  the 
poor  little  boy,  yielding  suddenly,  sat  down 
with  exquisite  precision  on  his  companion, 
and  with  distended  eyes  wailed  aloud  for  his 
relative,  who  disentangled  him  with  difficulty 
and  bore  him  away,  his  cap  over  his  ear  and  his 
little  chocolate  hands  clutching  her  neck.  In 

[9] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

the  comparative  silence  that  followed  the  gale 
of  laughter  some  bustle  and  conference  was 
noticed  on  the  sophomore  side,  and  suddenly 
the  leader  rose,  lifting  her  green  and  red  stick, 
and  the  front  line  of  sophomores  and  seniors 
intoned  with  great  distinctness  this  thrilling 
doggerel : 

I  never  saw  a  purple  pup : 

I  never  hoped  to  see  one : 
But  now  my  mind  is  quite  made  up  — 

I  'd  rather  see  than  be  one  ! 

This  was  received  favorably,  and  the  gal 
lery  congratulated  the  improvisatrice,  while 
Theodora  wondered  if  that  detracted  at  all 
from  the  glory  of  the  freshmen  !  The  chat 
tering  began  again,  and  she  drummed  ner 
vously  with  her  heels  against  the  platform, 
while  the  Centre,  sitting  next  her,  prophesied 
gloomily  that  Grace  Farwell  felt  awfully  blue, 
and  that  Miss  Kassan  had  said  they  were 
really  almost  too  slight  as  a  team — the  soph 
omores  were  so  tall  and  big.  Harriet  Foster 
had  said  that  she  was  perfectly  certain  she  'd 
sprain  her  ankle — then  who  would  guard 
Martha  Sutton  ?  It  was  all  very  well  for  Caro 
line  Wilde  to  say  not  to  worry  about  that — 
she  had  n't  been  able  to  guard  her  last  year  ! 
[  10] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

She  was  just  like  a  machine.  Her  arm  went 
up  and  the  ball  went  in;  that  was  all  there 
was  to  it.  And  Kate  was  as  bad.  They  might 
just  as  well  make  up  their  minds  — 

"Oh,  hush  !"  cried  Theodora,  her  eyes  full 
of  nervous  tears;  "if  you  can't  talk  any  other 
way,  just  keep  still !" 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Centre,  huffily,  and 
then  the  chattering  died  away  as  Miss  Kassan 
made  mysterious  marks  on  the  floor,  and  the 
coaches  took  their  places  with  halves  of  lemon 
and  glasses  of  water  in  their  hands.  A  door 
opened,  and  in  a  dead  hush  the  sophomore 
team  trotted  in,  two  and  two,  the  Suttons 
leading,  bouncing  the  big  ball  before  them. 
There  was  such  a  silence  that  the  thudding 
feet  seemed  to  echo  and  ring  through  the  hall, 
and  only  when  Martha  suddenly  tossed  it  be 
hind  her  at  nothing  and  Kate  from  some  cor 
ner  walked  over  and  caught  it  did  the  red  and 
green  burst  forth  in  a  long-drawn  single  shout: 
"Ninety-gre-e-e-e-e-n  !" 

Miss  Kassan  looked  apprehensive,  but  no 
'Rah,  'rah,  'rah!  followed;  only, — 

Here's  to  Sutton  M.  and  K. 
And  they'll  surely  win  the  day, 
Drink  'em  down,  drink  'em  down,  drink  'em  downy 
down,  down  ! 

C  "  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Theodora  set  her  teeth.  "Humph!  Will 
they?"  she  muttered  savagely. 

"Here  they  come  !"  cried  the  Centre,  and 
they  ran  in,  the  big  yellow  numerals  gleam 
ing  effectively  against  their  dark  suits,  their 
braids  bobbing  behind  them.  Grace  Farwell 
was  quite  pale,  with  one  little  spot  of  red  in 
each  cheek,  but  Harriet  Foster  was  crimson 
with  excitement,  and  the  thick  braids  of  au 
burn  hair  that  fell  over  her  breast  bumped 
up  and  down  as  she  breathed.  The  thunder 
of  recognition  died  away,  and  they  tossed  the 
ball  about  nervously,  with  an  eye  on  Miss 
Kassan,  who  handed  a  ball  to  her  assistant 
and  took  her  place  on  the  line  to  watch  fouls. 

"All  ready  !"said  the  assistant.  There  was 
a  shuffling  about,  a  confusion  in  the  centre,  a 
concentration  of  eyes.  Harriet  Foster  took 
her  place  by  Martha  Sutton  and  sucked  in  her 
under  lip;  Grace  lined  up  with  Kate  in  the 
centre,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands. 
Near  her  stood  a  tall  slim  girl  with  green  nu 
merals  on  her  sleeve.  Her  soft  dark  hair  was 
coiled  lightly  into  a  Greek  knot — it  seemed 
that  the  slightest  hasty  movement  must  shake 
it  over  her  sloping  shoulders.  It  grew  into  a 
clean-cut  widow's  peak  low  on  her  smooth 
white  forehead ;  below  straight,  fine  brows  two 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB^GUARD 

great,  sad,  gray  eyes,  wide  apart,  wondered  at 
life ;  her  oval  face  was  absolutely  colorless  and 
threw  out  the  little  scarlet  mouth  that  drooped 
softly  at  the  corners.  Her  hands  lightly  folded 
before  her,  she  swayed  a  little  and  looked 
dreamily  over  the  heads  of  the  others;  she 
seemed  as  incongruous  as  a  Madonna  at  a 
bull-fight. 

"Who  is  that  lovely  girl  in  the  middle  ?" 
said  some  one  behind  Theodora. 

"That  is  a  Miss  Greer,"  was  the  reply. 
"She  is  one  of  the  best — " 

"Play!"  called  the  assistant,  and  the  big 
ball  flew  out  of  her  hands  into  Kate  Sutton's. 
Kate  gave  an  indescribable  twist  of  her  shoul 
der,  the  ball  rose  in  the  air,  passed  over  an 
utterly  irrelevant  scuffle  in  the  centre,  and 
landed  in  Martha's  hands.  Martha  balanced  it 
a  moment  and  threw  it  into  the  exacl  middle 
of  the  basket,  while  the  sophomores  howled 
and  pounded  and  the  freshmen  looked  blankly 
at  one  another.  They  had  not  been  accustomed 
to  such  simple  and  efficacious  methods. 

"One  to  nothing!"  said  the  assistant, 
quietly.  "Play!" 

Theodora  caught  her  breath.  She  dared  not 
look  at  Grace,  but  she  stared  hard  at  Harriet. 
What  was  Harriet  thinking?  Not  that  she 

[  13  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

could  have  done  anything — Martha  was  two 
inches  taller  and  had  the  ball  tight  in  her  hands 
two  seconds  after  the  assistant  had  tossed  it — 
Ah,  what  was  that  ? 

The  ball  had  reached  the  floor  and  Grace 
had  somehow  gotten  it.  She  threw  it  to  Vir 
ginia  Wheeler,  whose  hands  were  just  grazing 
it  when  something  shot  like  a  flash  of  light 
ning  upon  her.  She  fell  back  and  some  one 
slapped  the  ball  from  between  her  very  fin 
ger-nails  up,  up  into  the  air,  where  Kate  caught 
it,  and  a  few  short,  sharp,  instantaneous  passes 
got  it  into  Martha's  relentless  hands.  When 
it  dropped  into  the  basket  Alison  Greer  was 
looking  beyond  the  tumult,  across  the  gallery, 
into  the  sky — white  and  unruffled.  Theodora 
winked  and  tried  to  think  that  some  one  else 
had  swooped  down  from  her  place  six  seconds 
before. 

The  sophomores  were  shouting  yet.  Some 
one  said:  "That's  as  pretty  a  piece  of  team 
work  as  you  '11  often  see,  is  n't  it  ?  Those  twins 
have  eyes  in  the  backs  of  their  heads." 

"  Two  to  nothing — play !  "said  the  assistant. 

Theodora  did  not  see  the  next  goal  won. 
Through  a  mist  she  stared  into  the  gallery. 
Her  eye  caught  a  face  she  knew,  and  she  won 
dered  angrily  how  Miss  Carew  could  smile  so 

[  H] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

nonchalantly — it  was  her  own  class !  From  the 
plume  in  her  exquisite  toque  to  the  tip  of  her 
patent  leather  toe  she  looked  the  visiting  lady 
of  leisure.  The  little  lace  handkerchief  dan 
gling  from  her  hand  hadagreen  silk  monogram 
in  the  corner — how  dared  she  wear  green?  She 
nodded  at  a  senior,  across  the  game,  and  fanned 
herself.  The  freshmen  broke  into  a  roar  of  de 
light  that  ended  in  a  long-drawn  A-a-a-a-hl 
There  was  a  scuffle,  a  little  cry,  a  flash  from 
Alison  Greer's  corner,  and  the  assistant's 
"Three  to  nothing — play!"  was  drowned  in 
the  sophomore  shouts. 

"You  see  the  freshmen  have  no  chance, 
really,"  said  some  one  behind,  calmly,  and  as 
if  it  made  little  matter  at  best.  "They  are  ter 
ribly  scared,  of  course,  and  they  Ve  never  had 
the  training  of  a  big  game.  The  sophomores 
have  been  all  through  this  before — they  don't 
mind  the  crowd.  And  then,  they  beat  last  year, 
and  that  gives  them  a  tremendous  confidence. 
They're  so  much  bigger,  too — " 

Theodora  turned  and  stared  at  her.  She  was 
very  pretty;  she  had  a  bunch  of  violets  as  big 
as  her  head  pinned  to  her  dress,  and  her  hands 
were  full  of  daffodils.  That  was  like  the  Fac 
ulty  !  To  take  their  flowers  and  talk  that  way ! 
"Horrid  thing !  Horrid  thing  !"  she  muttered, 

[  15] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

and  the  Centre,  looking  angrily  at  Miss  Greer, 
assented. 

"She  's  a  perfect  tiger  !  Look  at  her  eyes  ! 
She  knocked  Virginia  right  over  —  you 
could  n't  stop  her  with  a  steam-engine — Oh  ! 
Oh  !  Oh!  Ninety-yellow!  Rah,  rah-a-a-a-ah!" 

Right  out  of  their  hands  it  had  slipped*,  and 
the  two  girls  slid  across  the  floor,  fell,  reached 
out,  missed  it,  and  gritted  their  teeth  as  the  Cen 
tres,  with  a  long-practised  manoeuvre,  passed 
it  rapidly  from  hand  to  hand  to  Martha,  whose 
long  arm  slid  it  imperturbably  into  the  basket. 

"That  Guard  doesn't  accomplish  much,5' 
said  somebody. 

"Good  heavens,  how  can  she  ?  Look  at  the 
girl !  She  lays  it  in  like — like  that,"  was  the 
answer,  as  the  assistant  called,  "  Five  to  noth 
ing—play  I" 

Theodora  looked  up  at  the  purple  and  yel 
low  gallery.  The  freshmen  stared  as  if  hyp 
notized  at  their  steady  misfortune,  their  faces 
flushed,  their  mouths  tremulous:  when  the 
players  ran  to  suck  the  half-lemon  or  kneeled 
to  tighten  their  shoes,  their  class-mates  held 
breath  till  they  returned;  when  Grace  got  the 
ball  or  Virginia  pushed  it  aside,  they  started  a 
cheer  that  faded  into  a  sigh  as  Alison  Greer 
drove  everything  before  her  or  Kate  sent  that 
[  16] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

terrible  Sutton  throw  to  her  sister.  Theodora 
suddenly  started.  Just  before  the  ball  left  Kate, 
she  threwup  her  left  hand  with  the  palm  slightly 
spread,  and  some  instind:  moved  Theodora  to 
glance  at  Martha.  Her  left  hand  went  up  in 
stantly  as  if  to  throw  back  a  braid,  but  it 
waved  toward  the  right,  and  while  Harriet 
braced  herself  for  a  jump  the  ball  flew  into 
the  air  far  off  to  the  right  and  the  instinctive 
motion  toward  Martha  left  the  way  clear  for 
one  of  Alison  Greer's  rushes  and  sudden,  bird- 
like  throws.  In  a  moment  Martha  had  it,  and 
as  Harriet  bent  forward  to  guard,  and  the  ball 
toppled  unsteadily  on  the  edge  of  the  basket 
and  fell  off,  in  the  midst  of  the  hubbub  and 
scuffle  some  one  pushed  heavily  on  Harriet, 
four  hands  grasped  the  ball  firmly,  somebody 
called,  "Foul,  foul !"  and  as  five  panting  girls 
hurled  themselves  against  the  wall  and  the  as 
sistant  tossed  up  where  it  fell,  to  make  sure 
of  fair  play,  Harriet  dropped  with  her  foot  be 
neath  her  and  did  not  get  up.  Martha  put  the 
ball  in  from  an  amazing  distance,  and  in  the 
storm  of  applause  no  one  noticed  the  fresh 
man  Guard,  till  the  cry  of,  "Six  to  nothing — 
play!"  found  her  still  sitting  there. 

The  ball  was  dropped,  and  they  ran  up  to 
her.  Two  doctors  hurried  out;  she  half  rose, 

[  17] 


SMITH   COLLEGE    STORIES 

fell  back  and  bit  her  lip.  The  freshmen 
craned  out  over  the  gallery,  the  sophomores 
shook  their  heads;  "Too  bad,  too  bad!"  they 
murmured.  Two  freshmen  made  a  chair,  lifted 
Harriet  quickly  and  ran  out  with  her,  the  doc 
tors  followed,  and  in  the  dead  hush  they  heard 
her  voice  as  the  door  closed. 

"I  'm  so  sorry,  girls — go  right  on — don't 
wait — " 

"Plucky  girl,"  said  a  man's  voice.  "It's  a 
shame!" 

The  freshmen  looked  very  blue;  the  team 
stood  about  in  groups;  the  sophomores  waited 
politely  at  one  side.  Martha  went  over  to 
Grace  and  held  her  hand  out:  "I  'm  terribly 
sorry,"  she  said  earnestly,  "it 's  too  bad.  They 
say  your  Subs  are  very  good,  though." 

Grace  nodded,  and  ran  over  to  the  coaches, 
who  walked  aside  with  her  for  a  moment,  talk 
ing  earnestly.  Presently  they  came  over  to  the 
platform  and  the  Centre  nudged  Theodora 
enviously.  "Go  on!"  she  whispered.  "Grace 
wants  you  !" 

Theodora  gasped.  "Not  me — not  me!" 
she  objected  feebly.  "Me — guard — Martha 
Sutton!" 

"  Go  on  ! "  said  somebody,  and  they  pushed 
her  out. 

[  '8  ] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

"Come  on,  Theodora — hurry  up,  now!" 

The  people  seemed  to  swim  before  her;  for 
one  dreadful  moment  she  longed  for  her  home 
as  she  had  never  longed  before.  Her  knees 
shook  and  the  clapping  of  the  class  sounded 
faraway.  With  her  eyes  on  the  floor  she  moved 
out ;  halfway  to  the  centre  Virginia  Wheeler 
stepped  to  meet  her  and  put  her  arm  over 
Theodora's  shoulder. 

"Don't  be  scared,  Theo,"  she  said,  "don't 
be  scared,  but  help  us  out — heaven  knows 
we  need  it !" 

"Watch  Martha — don't  take  your  eyes  off 
her  !"  whispered  the  coach  as  she  handed  the 
lemon  to  the  new  Guard. 

As  in  a  dream  Theodora  passed  to  the 
lower  basket.  Martha  patted  her  on  the  shoul 
der.  "  Hello ! "  she  said  in  a  bluff,  friendly  way, 
and  then  the  assistant  called,  "Six  to  nothing, 
play!"  and  threw  the  ball.  It  dropped  in  the 
middle,  and  there  was  a  terrible  scrimmage  for 
at  least  four  minutes,  while  the  people  swayed 
and  sighed  and  clapped  and  screamed,  for  the 
freshmen  were  getting  terribly  excited  and 
rapidly  losing  their  self-control,  as  it  became 
evident  that  their  team  was  struggling  des 
perately  and  making  one  of  the  longest  rights 
on  record  for  the  ball  they  were  determined 

[  19] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

to  have.  It  was  almost  in  the  basket,  it  tot 
tered  on  the  edge,  it  fell,  and  Kate  Sutton 
caught  it — how,  no  one  knew,  for  it  was  no 
where  near  her.  The  freshmen  were  shriek 
ing  with  rage,  the  sophomores  clapping  with 
triumph.  Every  eye  in  the  hall  was  fixed  on 
Kate  Sutton — every  eye  but  Theodora's. 

She  watched  Martha,  and  saw  above  her  head 
that  long  brown  hand  wave  ever  so  slightly  to 
the  left  as  she  tossed  her  hair  back.  She  braced 
herself,  and  just  as  Martha  made  a  dash  to  the 
right,  Theodora  let  her  go  and  flew  to  the  left. 
She  went  too  far,  but  even  as  Martha  dashed 
up  behind  her  and  put  up  her  hands,  Theo 
dora  jumped,  caught  the  ball  with  her  left  hand 
and  with  her  right  hit  it  a  ringing  blow  that 
sent  it  straight  over  to  the  other  basket.  It 
hit  Alison  Greer's  head  as  she  rushed  toward 
it,  and  while  she  was  raising  her  hand  Grace 
Farwell  snatched  it  from  her  shoulder,  glanced 
desperately  at  the  Home,  who  had  lost  them 
two  balls,  and  bounded  across,  throwing  the 
ball  before  her.  The  roar  of  delight  from  the 
freshmen  was  literally  deafening,  and  as  Grace 
put  it  into  the  basket  it  seemed  to  Theodora 
that  the  roof  would  surely  drop. 

"Six  to  one  and  the  first  half's  up,"  said 
somebody,  and  Theodora  was  pushed  along 

[20] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

with  the  Team — her  team — into  the  sanc 
tum  of  their  rest.  But  as  they  neared  the  door, 
the  applause  became  a  song,  and  before  she 
quite  understood  what  the  verse  was,  it  rang 
out  above  her  head: 

Here's  to  Theodora.  Rooty 
She's  our  dandy  substitoot, 

Drink  her  down,  drink  her  down,  drink  her  down, 
down,  down! 

Any  one  who  has  never  been  a  subject  of 
song  to  some  hundreds  of  young  women  can 
not  perhaps  understand  why  the  mention  of 
one's  name  in  flattering  doggerel  should  be 
so  distinctly  and  immediately  affecting.  But 
any  one  who  has  had  that  experience  knows 
the  little  contraction  of  the  heart,  the  sudden 
hot  tightening  of  the  eyelids,  the  confused, 
excited  desire  to  be  worthy  of  all  that  trust 
and  admiration.  It  is  to  be  doubted  if  Theo 
dora  ever  again  felt  so  ideally,  impersonally 
devoted  to  any  cause,  so  pathetically  eager  to 
"make  them  proud  of  her." 

In  the  little  room  the  Team  dropped  on  the 
floor  and  panted.  The  coaches  bustled  in  with 
water,  shook  the  hand  of  the  new  Guard  and 
told  her  to  lie  flat  and  not  talk.  A  strong  odor 
of  spirits  filled  the  room,  and  Theodora,  turn- 
[ai  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

ing  her  head  languidly — for  she  felt  very  tired 
all  at  once — saw  that  one  of  the  juniors  was 
rubbing  somebody  with  whiskey.  Grace  was 
nursing  an  elbow  and  excitedly  asking  every 
body  to  sit  on  Alison  Greer : "  She  works  her  el 
bow  right  into  you !  She  runs  you  right  down — " 

"There,  there!"  said  one  of  the  juniors, 
"never  mind,  never  mind,  Gracie  !  She's  a 
slugger,  if  you  like,  but  you  've  got  to  beat 
her  !  Don't  be  afraid  of  her." 

"It's  no  good,"  said  the  Home  that  had 
missed  two  balls,  "we  're  too — " 

"  That 's  enough  of  that,"  interrupted  the 
coach  who  was  fanning  Virginia  Wheeler. 
"You  're  playing  finely,  girls.  Now  all  you  've 
got  to  do  is  to  make  up  your  five  goals.  Don't 
you  see  how  low  you  've  kept  it  down?  You 
did  some  fine  centre  work.  Last  year  it  was 
eight  to  something  the  first  half.  You  tried 
to  put  it  in  standing  right  under  the  basket, 
Mary — stand  off  and  take  your  time." 

They  trotted  out  to  the  music  of  the  soph 
omore  prize  song.  It  was  a  legacy  from  the 
seniors,  who  had  themselves  inherited  it.  It 
leaped  out  at  them — a  mocking,  dancing,  de 
risive  little  tune  to  which  everybody  kept 
time. 

It  was  repeated  indefinitely,  and  at  every 

[22] 


EMOTIONS   OF  A   SUB-GUARD 

repetition  it  went  faster  and  more  furious,  and 
strangers  who  had  not  heard  it  laughed  louder 
and  louder. 

Grace  smiled  grimly.  The  Team  remem 
bered  her  words  just  before  the  door  opened. 

"  Girls,  it  is  n't  likely  that  we  '11  win,  but  we 
can  give  ^em  something  to  beat !  " 

And  as  the  ball  went  back  and  forth  and 
could  not  get  free  of  the  centre,  the  sopho 
mores  realized  that  they  had  "something  to 
beat."  The  freshmen  had  somehow  lost  their 
fear;  they  smiled  up  at  their  friends  and  grinned 
cheerfully  at  their  losses,  which  is  far  better 
than  to  try  to  look  unconscious.  A  little  bow- 
legged  girl  with  a  large  nose  and  red  knuckles 
accomplished  wonders  in  the  centre,  and  won 
them  their  second  basket  by  stooping  abruptly 
and  rolling  the  ball  straight  between  Kate  Sut- 
ton's  feet  to  Grace,  who  sat  upon  it  and  threw 
it  so  hard  at  Alison  Greer  that  it  bounded 
out  of  her  hands  and  was  promptly  caught  by 
Virginia  Wheeler  and  put  into  the  basket. 
This  feat  of  Grace's  was  due  entirely  to  her 
having  quite  lost  her  head,  but  it  passed  as  the 
most  daring  of  manoeuvres,  and  received  such 
wild  applause  that  Miss  Kassan  very  nearly 
stopped  the  game. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  This  is  terrible.  I  never 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

heard  such  noise  as  the  freshmen  are  making ! " 
she  mourned,  with  an  apprehensive  glance  at 
the  platform.  At  that  moment  the  ball  soared 
high,  fell,  was  sent  up  again,  and  caught  by  a 
phenomenal  leap  on  the  part  of  the  little  bow- 
legged  girl,  who  got  it  into  the  basket  before 
the  Home  knew  what  was  happening.  The 
war  broke  out  again,  and  Miss  Kassan  beheld 
two  members  of  the  Faculty  pounding  with 
their  canes  on  the  platform. 

"  Did  you  see  her  jump  ?  George!  That  was 
a  good  one  !  Did  you  see  that,  Robbins  ?  " 

But  Robbins  was  standing  up  in  his  interest 
and  cheering  under  his  breath  as  Martha  Sut- 
ton  snatched  a  ball  clearly  intended  for  some 
one  else,  quietly  put  it  in  the  basket,  and  smiled 
politely  at  her  enthusiastic  friends. 

"  Lord !  What  a  Fullback  she  'd  make  ! "  he 
muttered,  as  Alison  charged  down  into  the 
centre.  The  lavender  shadows  under  her  eyes 
were  deep  violet  now;  her  mouth  was  pressed 
to  a  scarlet  line;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
ball  like  gray  stars.  People  seemed  to  melt 
away  before  her:  she  never  turned  to  right  or 
left. 

Theodora  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing  but 
the  slap  of  hands  on  the  ball,  the  quick  breaths 
that  slipped  past  her  cheek.  She  knew  that  the 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

score  was  nine  to  five  now;  a  little  later  it  was 
nine  to  six.  She  caught  the  eye  of  thegirl  in  the 
toque:  she  was  standing  now,  her  cheeks  very 
red,  and  the  little  lace  handkerchief  was  torn 
to  shreds  in  her  hands. 

ic  Does  she  really  care  ?  "  thought  Theo 
dora,  as  she  jumped  and  twisted  and  doubled. 
Back  'on  the  senior  side  sat  Susan  Jackson, 
her  eyes  wide,  her  lips  parted;  Cornelia  Burt 
was  breathing  on  her  hands  and  chafing  them 
softly.  "Nine  to  seven — play  !  "  called  the  as 
sistant. 

Harriet  sat  near  the  fireplace,  her  bandaged 
foot  on  a  bench  before  her,  her  hands  twist 
ing  and  untwisting  in  her  lap. 

Here's  to  Harriet  Foster , 
And  we're  sorry  that  we  lost  her, 
Drink  her  down,  drink  her  down,  drink  her  down, 
down,  down! 

sang  the  freshmen.  Would  Harriet  have  done 
better  ?  Would  she  have — Ah  ! 

"  Ten  to  seven — play  !  " 

And  they  were  so  near,  too  !  They  were 
playing  well  —  Grace  and  Virginia  were  great 
— they  could  have  done  something  if  that 
stupid  Home — Oh  ! 

Theodora    leaped,   missed    the   ball,    but 

[25] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

danced  up  in  front  of  Martha  and  warded  off 
the  girl  who  slipped  in  to  help  her.  Martha 
uttered  an  impatient  exclamation  and  scowled. 
The  freshmen  howled  and  kicked  against  the 
gallery,  and  as  the  freshman  Home  woke  out 
of  an  apparent  lethargy  and  put  the  ball  in 
neatly  Theodora  clapped  and  cheered  with 
the  rest. 

"  Ten  to  eight— play  !  " 

There  was  a  scuffle,  a  fall,  and  a  hot  dis 
cussion.  Two  girls  grasped  the  ball,  and  the 
captains  hesitated.  Miss  Kassan  ran  up,  and 
in  the  little  lull  Theodora  heard  from  the 
platform : 

"  Oh,  give  it  to  the  freshmen  !  They  de 
serve  it!" 

"No,  Miss  Greer  had  it!" 

"She  knocked  the  girl  off  it,  if  that's 
what — "  A  rebellious  howl  from  the  yellow 
gallery  as  Miss  Greer  bore  off  the  ball,  and 
a  man's  voice: 

"Oh,  nonsense  !  If  you  don't  want  'em  to 
howl,  don't  let  'em  play  !  The  idea — to  get 
'em  all  worked  up  and  then  say:  'No,  young 
ladies,  control  yourselves!'  How  idiotic!  I 
don't  blame  'em — I  'd  howl  myself — Jiminy 
crickets  !  Look  at  that  girl !  Good  work  !  Good 
work  !  " 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

"Eleven  to  eight — play  !" 

"Good  old  Suttie !  Good  girl!  Ninety- 
gre-e-e-en  !" 

Theodora's  mouth  was  dry,  and  she  ran 
to  the  coach  for  a  lemon.  The  junior's  hand 
shook,  and  her  voice  was  husky  from  shouting. 

"  It 's  grand — it 's  grand  ! "  she  said  quickly. 
"Martha  's  mad  as  a  hatter  !  See  her  braid  !" 

Martha  had  twisted  her  pale  brown  pigtail 
tightly  round  her  neck,  and  was  calling  with 
little  indistinct  noises  to  her  sister.  Adah  Levy 
was  talking  to  herself  steadily  and  whispering, 
"Hurry  now,  hurry  now,  hurry  now!"  as  she 
doubled  and  bent  and  worried  the  freshman 
Home  out  of  her  senses.  Grace  Farwell  was 
everywhere  at  once,  and  was  still  only  when 
she  fell  backwards  with  a  bang  that  sickened 
the  visiting  mothers,  and  brought  the  fresh 
men's  hearts  into  their  mouths.  A  great  gasp 
travelled  up  the  gallery,  and  the  doctor  left  her 
seat,  but  before  she  reached  the  players  Grace 
was  up,  tossed  her  head,  blinked  rapidly,  and 
with  an  unsteady  little  smile  took  her  place 
by  Alison  Greer.  And  then  the  applause  that 
had  gone  before  was  mild  in  comparison  with 
the  thunder  from  both  galleries,  and  Miss 
Kassan  looked  at  her  watch  uneasily  and 
moved  forward. 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Now  everybody  was  standing  up,  and  the 
men  were  pushing  forward,  and  only  the  gasps 
and  bursts  of  applause  and  little  cries  of  dis 
appointment  disturbed  the  stillness  —  the 
steady  roar  had  stopped. 

Theodora  knew  nothing,  saw  nothing:  she 
only  played.  Her  back  ached,  and  her  throat 
was  dry ;  Martha's  elbow  moved  like  the  piston 
of  a  steam-engine;  her  arm,  when  Theodora 
pressed  against  it,  was  like  a  stiff  bar;  she  tow 
ered  above  her  Guard.  It  was  only  a  question 
of  a  few,  few  minutes — could  they  make  it 
"eleven  to  nine"? 

She  must  have  asked  the  question,  for 
Martha  gasped,  "No,  you  won't!"  at  her, 
and  her  heart  sank  as  Miss  Kassan  moved 
closer.  The  ball  neared  their  basket;  the  little 
bow-legged  girl  ducked  under  Alison's  nose 
and  emerged  with  it  from  a  chaos  of  swaying 
Centres,  tossed  it  to  Grace,  who  dashed  to  the 
basket — 

"Time's  up!" 

The  freshmen  shrieked,  the  Team  yelled 
to  its  captain:  "Put  it  in  !  put  it  in  !"  The 
sophomore  Guards  had  not  heard  Miss  Kas 
san,  and  Grace  poised  the  ball.  A  yell  from 
the  freshmen — and  she  deliberately  dropped 
it. 

[28] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

"Time  's  up,"  she  said,  with  a  little  break 
in  her  voice,  and  as  Miss  Kassan  hurried  for 
ward  to  stop  the  play  she  gave  her  the  ball. 
Through  the  tumult  a  bass  voice  was  heard: 
"I  say,  you  know,  that  was  pretty  decent! 
I  'm  not  sure  I  'd  have  done  that  myself!" 

And  as  the  assistant  and  Miss  Kassan  re 
tired  to  compare  fouls,  and  the  noise  grew 
louder  and  louder,  the  freshman  team,  with 
drawn  near  the  platform,  heard  a  young  pro 
fessor,  not  so  many  years  distant  from  his  own 
alma  mater,  enthusiastically  assuring  any  one 
who  cared  to  hear,  that  "That  girl  was  a  dead 
game  sport,  now !" 

For  a  moment  the  feeling  against  Grace 
had  been  bitter — the  basket  was  so  near  !  But 
as  the  sophomores  were  openly  commend 
ing  her,  and  as  Miss  Kassan  was  heard  to  say 
that  the  Team  had  played  in  splendid  form 
and  had  given  a  fine  example  of  "the  self-con 
trol  that  the  game  was  supposed  to  teach," 
they  thought  better  of  their  captain  with  every 
minute. 

"Eleven  to  eight,  in  favor  of  Ninety-green 
— fouls  even  !"  said  Miss  Kassan,  and  the 
storm  broke  from  the  gallery.  But  before  it 
reached  the  floor,  almost,  Martha  was  ener 
getically  beating  time,  and  above  the  miscel- 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

laneous  babble  rose  the  strong,  steady  cheer 
of  the  sophomores: 

'Rah,  'rah,  'rah  ! 
'Rah,  'rah,  'rah  ! 
'Rah,  'rah,  'rah  !  —  Ninety-ye-e-e-e-llow  ! 

"Quick,  girls!  quick!"  cried  Grace,  for 
Miss  Kassan  was  running  toward  them  with 
determination  in  her  eye. 

'Rah,  'rah,  'rah  ! 
'Rah,  'rah,  'rah  ! 
'Rah,  'rah,  'rah  !  —  Ninety-gre-e-e-e-n  ! 

Then  it  was  all  a  wild,  confused  tumult. 
Theodora  had  no  distinct  impressions;  peo 
ple  kissed  her  and  shook  her  hand,  and  Kathie 
Sewall  carried  Grace  off  to  a  swarm  of  girls 
who  devoured  her,  but  not  before  Martha, 
breathless  from  a  rapid  ride  around  the  floor 
on  the  unsteady  shoulders  of  her  loyal  team, 
had  solemnly  extended  her  hot  brown  hand 
to  the  freshman  captain  and  said,  with  sin 
cere  respect,  "That  was  as  good  a  freshman 
game  as  ever  was  played,  Miss  Farwell — 
we  're  mighty  proud  of  ourselves  !  Your  cen 
tre  work  was  simply  great  !  And — and  of 
course  we  know  that  that  last  goal  was — was 
practically  yours  ! " 

Theodora  had  expected  to  feel  so  ashamed 

[30] 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

and  sad — and  somehow  she  was  so  proud  and 
happy  !  The  sophomores  last  year  had  locked 
themselves  in  for  one  hour  and — expressed 
their  feelings;  but  the  freshmen  could  only 
realize  that  theirs  was  the  closest  score  known 
for  years,  and  that  they  had  made  it  against 
the  best  team  the  college  had  ever  seen;  that 
Martha  had  said  that  in  fifteen  minutes  more, 
at  the  rate  they  were  playing,  nobody  knew 
what  might  have  happened;  that  Miss  Kassan 
had  said  that  except  in  the  matter  of  noise  she 
had  been  very  proud  of  them;  and  that  Pro 
fessor  Robbins  had  called  their  captain  a 
Dead  Game  Sport ! 

It  would  not  have  been  etiquette  to  carry 
Grace  about  the  hall,  but  they  managed  [to 
convey  to  her  their  feelings,  which  were  far 
from  perfunctory,  and  in  their  enthusiasm 
they  went  so  far  as  to  obey  the  Council's  ear 
nest  request  that  the  decorations  should  re 
main  untouched.  They  cheered  Theodora  and 
Virginia  and  Harriet  and  the  bow-legged  girl 
till  you  would  have  supposed  them  victorious; 
and  when  Harriet  told  Grace,  with  a  little 
gulp,  that  it  was  all  up  with  her,  for  her 
mother  had  said  that  a  second  sprained  ankle 
meant  no  more  basket-ball,  the  little  sympa 
thetic  crowd  brightened,  and  all  eyes  turned 

[31  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

to  Theodora,  who  breathed  hard  and  tried  to 
seem  not  to  notice.  Could  it  be  ?  Would  she 
ever  run  out  bouncing  the  ball  in  that  wait 
ing  hush?  .  .  . 

They  were  out  of  the  Gym  now,  and  only 
the  ushers'  bonnets,  the  green  and  yellow 
flowers  that  the  Council  had  not  controlled, 
the  crumpled,  printed  sheets  of  basket-ball 
songs,  and  the  little  mascots  posing  for  their 
pictures  on  the  campus  made  the  day  differ 
ent  from  any  other. 

"Come  and  lie  down,"  said  somebody,  re 
garding  Theodora  with  a  marked  respect. 
"You'll  want  to  get  rested  before  the  din 
ner,  you  know." 

And  as  Theodora  stared  at  her  and  half 
turned  to  run  after  Grace,  whom  Kathie  Sew- 
all  was  quietly  leading  off,  the  girl — she  was 
in  the  house  with  her — held  her  back. 

"I  'd  let  Grace  alone,  if  I  were  you,"  she 
said.  "She's  pretty  well  used  up;  she  hurt 
her  elbow  quite  badly,  but  she  would  n't  say 
anything,  and  Dr.  Leach  says  she  '11  have  to 
keep  perfectly  quiet  if  she  wants  to  be  at  the 
dinner — wants  to  !  the  idea !  But  she  said  of 
course  you  were  to  come.  They  say  they  're 
going  to  take  some  of  the  Gym  decorations 
down. — What !  Why,  the  idea!  Of  course 


EMOTIONS   OF   A   SUB-GUARD 

you  '11  go  !  You  're  sure  to  make  the  Team, 
anyhow,  for  that  matter  !  I  tell  you,  Theo 
dora,  we  're  proud  of  you  !  It  was  n't  any  joke 
to  step  in  there  and  guard  Martha  Sutton 
with  a  score  of  six  to  nothing!" 

Theodora  paused  at  the  steps,  her  mackin 
tosh  half  off,  her  hair  tangled  about  her  crim 
son  cheeks,  her  sleeve  dusty  from  that  last 
mad  slide. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  a  wave  of  reminis 
cence  of  that  sick  shaking  of  her  knees,  that 
shrinking  from  a  million' critical  eyes.  "No, 
it  was  n't  any  joke — not  in  the  least !" 

And  she  climbed  up  the  stairs  to  a  burst 
of  applause  from  the  freshmen  in  the  house 
and  the  shrill  cry  of  her  room-mate: 

"Come  on,  Theo  !  I  Ve  got  a  bath-tub 
for  you  !" 


[33  ] 


THE   SECOND   STORY 


A  CASE   OF  INTERFERENCE 


II 

A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

""W  ^W"  THAT  I  want  to  know/'  said 

%  /%  /  the  chairman  of  the  committee, 
^y  ^  wearily,"  is  just  this.  Are  we  go 
ing  to  give  the  Lady  of  Lyons, 
or  are  we  not  ?  I  have  a  music  lesson  at  four 
and  a  tea  at  five,  and  while  your  sprightly  and 
interesting  conversation  is  ever  pleasing  to 
me—" 

"Oh,  Neal,  don't !  Think  of  something  for 
us  !  Don't  you  want  us  to  give  it?" 

"I  think  it 's  too  love-making.  And  no  one 
up  here  makes  love.  The  girls  will  howl  at 
that  garden  scene.  You  must  get  something 
where  they  can  be  funny." 

"  But,  Neal,  dear,  you  can  make  beautiful 
love!" 

"Certainly  I  can,  but  I  can't  make  it  alone, 
can  I?  And  Margaret  Ellis  is  a  stick — a  per 
fect  stick.  But  then,  have  it !  I  see  you  're  bent 
on  it.  Only  I  tell  you  one  thing — it  will  take 
more  rehearsing  than  the  girls  will  want  to 
give.  And  I  shan't  do  one  word  of  it  publicly 
till  I  think  that  we  have  rehearsed  enough 
together.  So  that 's  all  I  've  got  to  say  till 
Wednesday,  and  I  must  go  !" 

The  door  opened — shut;  and  before  the 

[37] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

committee  had  time  for  comment  or  criticism, 
their  chairman  had  departed. 

"Neal's  a  trifle  cross/'  suggested  Patsy, 
mildly.  "Something  's  the  matter  with  her," 
said  Julia  Leslie.  "She  got  a  note  from  Miss 
Henderson  this  afternoon,  and  I  think  she  's 
going  to  see  her  now.  Oh,  I  have  n't  the 
vaguest  idea — What?  No,  I  know  it's  not 
about  her  work.  Neal  's  all  straight  with  that 
department.  Well,  I  think  I  '11  go  over  to  the 
Gym  and  hunt  out  a  suit.  Who  has  the  key 
to  the  property  box  now?" 

The  little  group  dissolved  rapidly  and  No.  1 8 
resumed  its  wonted  quiet.  "There's  nothing 
like  having  a  society  girl  for  a  room-mate,  is 
there,  Patsy?"  said  the  resident  Sutton  twin, 
opening  the  door.  She  and  her  sister  were  dis 
tinguishable  by  their  room-mates  alone,  and 
they  had  been  separated  with  a  view  to  pre 
venting  embarrassing  confusion,  as  they  were 
incredibly  alike.  "  Could  n't  I  make  the  Alpha 
on  the  strength  of  having  vacated  this  hearth 
and  home  eighteen  times  by  aclual  count  for 
its  old  committees?" 

"  I  've  put  you  up  five  times,  Kate,  love,  but 
they  think  your  hair 's  too  straight.  Could  n't 
you  curl  it  ? " 

Kate  sniffed  scornfully. "  I  've  always  known 

[38] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

that  the  literary  societies  had  some  such  sys 
tem  of  selection,"  she  said  to  the  bureau. 
"Now,  in  an  idle  moment  of  relaxation,  the 
secret  is  out !  Patsy,  I  scorn  the  Alpha,  and  the 
Phi  Kappa  likewise." 

"I  scorn  the  Phi  Kappa  myself,  theoreti 
cally,"  said  Patsy. 

"Do  you  think  they  '11  take  in  that  queer 
junior,  you  know,  that  looks  so  tall  till  you 
get  close  to  her,  and  then  it 's  the  way  she 
walks  ? " 

"Dear  child,  your  vivid  description  some 
how  fails  to  bring  her  to  my  mind." 

"  Why  don't  you  want  her  in  Alpha  ?  But  be 
careful  you  don't  wait  too  long  !  You  're  both 
leaving  me  till  late  in  the  year,  you  know,  and 
then,  ten  to  one,  the  other  one  gets  me  !" 

"A  little  violet  beside  a  mossy  stone  is  a 
poor  comparison,  Katharine,  but  at  the  mo 
ment  I  think  of  no  other.  I  am  glad  you  grasp 
the  situation  so  clearly,  though." 

"  But,  truly,  I  wonder  why  they  don't  take 
that  girl — is  n't  her  name  Hastings  ? — into 
Phi  Kappa  ?  She  writes  awfully  well,  they  say, 
and  I  guess  she  recites  well  enough." 

The  other  Sutton  twin  sauntered  in,  and 
appearing  as  usual  to  grasp  the  entire  conver 
sation  from  the  beginning,  rolled  her  sister  off 

[39] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

the  couch,  filled  her  vacant  place,  and  entered 
the  discussion. 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  know  she  won't 
make  either  society  !  She  's  too  indifferent — 
she  does  n't  care  enough.  And  she  's  off  the 
campus,  and  she  does  n't  go  out  anywhere, 
and  she  is  always  alone,  and  that  speaks  for 
itself—" 

"Oh,  I  'm  tired  of  talking  about  her  !  Stop 
it,  Kate,  and  get  some  crackers,  that 's  a  dear  ! 
Or  I  '11  get  them  myself,"  and  Patsy  was  in 
the  hall. 

Kate  shook  her  head  wisely  at  the  bureau. 
"Something's  in  the  air,"  she  said  softly. 
"Patsy  is  bothered.  So  is  Neal.  And  there 
are  plenty  of  crackers  on  the  window-seat !" 

Miss  Margaret  Sewall  Pattison  sauntered 
slowly  down  the  stairs.  For  one  whose  heart 
was  set  on  crackers  she  seemed  strangely  in 
different  to  the  hungry  girls  standing  about 
the  pantry  with  fountain  pens  and  ledure 
books  and  racquets  and  hammocks  under 
their  arms.  She  walked  by  them  and  out  of 
the  door,  stood  a  moment  irresolutely  on  the 
porch,  and  then,  as  she  caught  sight  of  Cor 
nelia  Burt  coming  out  of  the  dormitory  just 
beyond,  she  hurried  out  to  meet  her. 

"Busy  this  hour,  Neal?"  she  said. 

[40] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

"No,"  said  Cornelia,  briefly.  "Where  shall 

?>  j 

VY^     &VX    . 

"We  can  go  to  the  property  box  and  get 
some  clothes,"  said  Patsy,  "and  talk  it  over 
there." 

In  the  cellar  of  the  gymnasium  it  was  cool 
and  dim.  The  beams  rose  high  above  their 
heads,  and  a  musty  smell  of  tarlatan  and  mus 
lin  and  cheese-cloth  filled  the  air.  Patsy  sat 
on  an  old  flower-stand,  and  pushed  Cornelia 
down  on  a  Greek  altar  that  lay  on  its  side  with 
a  faded  smilax  wreath  still  clinging  to  it. 

"  What  did  she  say  to  you,  Neal  ? "  she  asked. 

Neal  looked  at  the  floor.  "She  was  lovely, 
but  I  did  n't  half  appreciate  it.  I  was  so  both 
ered  and — vexed.  Pat,  I  did  n't  know  the 
Faculty  ever  did  this  sort  of  thing,  did  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  they  often  do,"  said  Patsy. 
"Did  she  read  that  thing  to  you,  too  ?" 

"Yes.  Patsy,  that 's  a  remarkable  thing. 
Do  you  know,  when  I  went  there  I  thought 
she  was  going  to  call  me  down  for  taking  off 
the  Faculty  in  that  last  Open  Alpha.  The 
girls  say  she  hates  that  sort  of  thing.  You 
know  she  always  says  just  what  she  thinks. 
And  she  said,  cl  want  to  read  you  a  little 
story,  Miss  Burt,  that  happened  to  come  into 
my  hands,  and  that  has  haunted  me  since."1 

[41  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

"How  do  you  suppose  she  got  hold  of  it  ?" 
queried  Patsy. 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  certainly 
should  n't  pick  her  out  to  exhibit  my  themes 
to  !  —  I  never  saw  them  together." 

"I  think  I  saw  them  walking  once — well, 
go  on  !" 

"£For  the  Monthly?'  said  I. 

"'No,'  said  she.  CI  think  the  author  would 
not  consent  to  its  publication.'  And  then  she 
read  it  to  me.  Pat,  if  that  girl  has  suffered  as 
much  as  that,  I  don't  see  how  she  stays  here." 

"She's  too  proud  to  do  anything  else," 
said  Patsy.  "Go  on." 

"Then  Miss  Henderson  said:  CI  needn't 
tell  you  the  value  of  this  thing  from  a  literary 
point  of  view,  Miss  Burt.' 

"cNo,'  said  I,  'you  needn't.' 

"'Very  well,'  said  she;  cthen  I  '11  tell  you 
something  else.  Every  word  of  it  is  true/ 

"£I'm  sorry,'  said  I." 

"Oh,  Neal !  I  cried  when  she  read  it  to 
me  !  I  blubbered  like  a  baby.  And  she  was 
so  nice  about  it.  But  I  hated  her,  almost,  for 
disturbing  me  so." 

"Precisely.  So  I  said:  cAnd  what  have  you 
read  this  to  me  for,  Miss  Henderson?'  And 
then  she  told  me  that  the  girl  in  the  story  was 


A   CASE   OF    INTERFERENCE 

Winifred  Hastings.  She  has  always  lived  with 
older  people  and  been  a  great  pet  and  sort  of 
prodigy,  you  know,  and  was  expelled  to  do 
great  things  here,  and  found  herself  lonely, 
and  was  proud  and  did  n't  make  friends,  and 
got  farther  away  from  the  college  instead  of 
nearer  to  it,  and  all  that.  And  I  said,  CI  sup 
pose  she  's  not  the  only  one,  Miss  Hender 
son/  And  she  looked  at  me  so  queerly. 
c  Mephistopheles  said  that/  said  she/' 

"Oh  !  Neal !  How  could  you  ?  I  —  why  are 
you  so  cold  and — " 

"  Unsympathetic  ?  I  don't  know.  We  all 
have  the  defects  of  our  qualities,  I  suppose. 
Miss  Henderson  was  quite  still  for  a  moment, 
looking  at  me.  I  felt  like  a  fly  on  a  pin.  c  Why 
do  you  try  so  hard  to  be  cruel,  Miss  Burt?' 
said  she,  finally. c  I  think  you  have  an  immense 
capacity  for  suffering  and  for  sympathy.  Is  it 
because  you  are  afraid  to  give  way  to  it  ? '  And 
I  said,  'Exactly  so,  Miss  Henderson.  I  never 
go  to  the  door  when  the  tramps  come.' 

"'Neither  did  I,  once,'  said  she,  'but  I 
found  it  was  a  singularly  useless  plan.  You  've 
got  to,  some  time,  Miss  Burt.' 

"'That's  what  I  've  always  been  afraid  of, 
but  I  'm  putting  it  off  as  long  as  I  can,'  said  I. 

"And  then  she  told  me  that  this  was  the 

[43  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

first  time  that  she  had  done  anything  of  this 
kind  for  a  long  while. c  I  don't  believe  in  help 
ing  people  to  their  places,  as  a  rule/  she  said. 
'They  usually  get  what  they  deserve,  I  fancy. 
But  this  is  a  peculiar  case.  You  suppose  she 
is  not  the  only  one,  Miss  Burt  ?  I  hope  there 
are  very  few  like  her.  I  have  never  known  of 
a  girl  of  her  ability  to  lose  everything  that  she 
has  lost.  There  are  girls  who  are  queer  and 
erratic  and  somewhat  solitary  and  perhaps  dis 
contented,  but  they  get  into  a  prominence  of 
their  own  and  you  call  it  a  "divine  discon 
tent,"  and  make  them  geniuses,  and  they  get 
a  good  deal  out  of  it,  after  all.  There  are  girls 
who  are  queer  and  quick-tempered,  but  good 
students,  and  devoted  to  a  few  warm  friends, 
and  their  general  unpopularity  doesn't  trouble 
them  particularly.  There  are  the  social  leaders, 
who  don't  particularly  suffer  if  they  don't  get 
into  a  society,  who  are  popular  everywhere, 
and  get  the  good  time  they  came  for.  But 
Winifred  Hastings  has  somehow  missed  all 
these.  She  got  started  wrong,  and  she  's  gone 
from  bad  to  worse.  She  is  not  solitary  by  na 
ture,  and  yet  she  is  more  alone  than  the  girls 
who  like  solitude,  even.  She  is  not  naturally 
reserved,  and  yet  she  is  considered  more  so 
than  almost  any  girl  in  college.  I  believe  her 

[44] 


A   CASE   OF    INTERFERENCE 

to  have  great  executive  ability.  I  consider  her 
one  of  the  distinctly  literary  girls  in  her  class, 
—  and  if  there  is  anything  in  essentially  "bad 
luck,"  I  do  honestly  believe  that  she  is  the 
victim  of  it.  Her  characteristics  are  so  balanced 
and  opposed  to  each  other  that  she  can't  help 
herself,  and  she  does  things  that  make  her 
seem  what  she  is  not.  Her  real  self  is  in  this 
story.  You  can  see  the  pathos  of  that ! ' ' 

Neal  drew  a  long  breath.  "Did  she  say  that 
to  you?"  she  concluded. 

"No,  not  exactly.  She  told  me  that  she  was 
speaking  to  me  as  one  of  the  social  influences 
of  the  college.  I  felt  like  a  cross  between  Ma 
dame  de  Stael  and  Ward  McAllister,  you 
know.  And  then  she  spoke  of  the  power  we 
have,  the  girls  like  me,  and  how  a  little  help 
— oh,  Neal !  it  does  mean  a  good  deal,  though ! 
I  can't  make  people  take  this  girl  up,  all 
alone  !  The  girls  are  n't — " 

"They  are  !  They  're  the  merest  sheep  !  If 
you  do  it,  they  '11  all  follow  you.  That  is,  if 
she  's  really  worth  anything.  Of  course,  they 
are  n't  fools." 

"She  sat  on  me  awfully,  though,  Neal !  I 
said,  c  I  suppose  you  think  we  ought  to  have 
her  in  Alpha,  Miss  Henderson.'  She  gave 
me  a  look  that  simply  withered  me.  'My  dear 

[  45  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Miss  Pattison,'  said  she,  in  that  twenty-mile- 
away  tone,  c  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  suggest 
ing  candidates  for  either  of  the  societies:  I 
must  have  made  myself  far  from  clear  to  you.' 
And  I  apologized.  But  it 's  what  she  meant, 
all  the  same!" 

"  Of  course  it  is.  Well,  I  suppose  she  's 
right.  It  is  n't  everybody  would  have  dared 
to  do  that  much.  I  respect  her  for  it  myself. 
You  are  to  launch  her  socially,  I  am  to — " 

"Neal  Burt,  I  think  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  !  Did  n't  Miss  Henderson  tell  you 
how  Winifred  Hastings  admired  you  ?  " 

"Yes.  She  said  that  I  was  the  only  girl  in  the 
college  whose  friendship  —  Oh,  dear!  I  wish 
she  had  gone  to  Vassar,  that  girl !  Heavens  ! 
It 's  half-past  three  !  I  must  go  this  minute. 
Well,  Patsy,  we  're  honored,  in  a  way.  I  don't 
think  Miss  Henderson  would  talk  to  every 
one  as  she  has  to  us,  do  you  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Patsy,  gravely,  "I  don't.  You 
know,  Neal,  just  as  I  was  going,  she  said,  'Of 
course  you  realize,  Miss  Pattison,  that  only 
you  and  I  and  Miss  Burt  have  seen  this  story  ? ' 
CI  understand,'  said  I.  'Perhaps  I  have  done 
this  because  I  understand  Miss  Hastings  bet 
ter  than  she  thinks,'  she  said.  c  I  —  I  was  a  lit 
tle  like  her,  myself,  once,  Miss  Pattison  ! ' 

[46] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

"Yes,"  said  Neal,  "she  told  me  that." 

"  I  don't  see  why  Miss  Henderson  doesn't 
take  her  up  herself,  if  she  understands  her  so 
terribly  well,"  scowled  Patsy.  "She  looks  just 
like  the  kind  of  girl  to  be  devoted  to  one  per 
son  and  all  that,  you  know.  Miss  Henderson 
could  go  for  walks  with  her  and  — " 

"  Too  much  sense  !  "  said  Neal,  briefly. 
"She  wants  to  get  her  in  with  the  girls.  That 
sort  of  thing  would  kill  her  with  the  girls,  and 
she  knows  it." 

"Oh,  bother!  Look  at  B.  Kitts — she's  a 
great  friend  of  Miss  Henderson's,  and  look 
at  yourself!  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  Neal  returned  decidedly. 
"  Biscuits  was  in  with  your  set  long  before  she 
got  to  know  Miss  Henderson,  and  I  knew 
Marion  Hunter  at  home  before  she  came  up 
here.  It 's  all  very  well  to  chum  with  the  Fac 
ulty  if  you  're  in  with  the  girls,  too,  but  other 
wise — as  my  friend  Claude  says,  Nay,  nay, 
Pauline!  Besides,  Miss  Henderson  doesn't 
go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing  anyhow — she  Js 
too  clever." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  it  is  best  for  us  to  do 
it.  I  guess  she  's  right   enough,"  said  Patsy, 
rising  as  she  spoke,  "and  I  suppose  we  can 
do  it  as  well  as  anybody,  for  that  matter." 
[47  ] 


SMITH    COLLEGE   STORIES 

They  mounted  the  stone  steps  and  came 
out  into  a  light  that  dazzled  them.  "There 
she  is  !"  said  Patsy  softly,  as  a  tall  girl,  plainly 
dressed,  walked  quickly  by  them.  Her  face 
was  strangely  set,  her  mouth  almost  hard,  her 
eyes  looked  at  them  with  an  expression  that 
would  have  been  defiant  but  for  something 
that  softened  them  as  they  met  Neal's.  She 
bowed  to  her,  hardly  noticing  Patsy's  "Good 
afternoon,  Miss  Hastings  !  "  and  hurried  off 
to  the  back  campus.  Behind  were  two  fresh 
men  loaded  with  pillows.  "Isn't  that  Miss 
Hastings  ?  "  said  one. 

"  Yes.  She  's  going  to  leave  college." 

"  Oh  !  Well,  we  can  lose  her  better  than 
some  others  I  could  mention,"  said  the  pret 
tier  and  better  dressed  of  the  two.  Then, 
catching  sight  of  Patsy  and  Neal,  she  stopped 
and  blushed  a  little.  "  Did — did  you  get  my 
note,  Miss  Burt  ?  Will  you  come  ?  "  she  asked 
prettily.  Neal  smiled. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  shall  be  pleased — at  four  on 
Saturday,  I  think  you  said  ?  "  And  then  as 
the  two  moved  on  she  added,  "I  heard  you 
say  something  about  Miss  Hastings:  is  it  true 
she  's  going  to  leave  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other  freshman,  impor 
tantly.  "Immediately,  she  told  Mrs.  White. 

[48  ] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

I  'm  in  the  house  with  her.  I  think  she  said 
next  week.  She  's  disappointed  in  college,  I 
guess.  Well,  I  should  think  she  would  be. 
She—" 

"  I  trust  the  college  has  given  her  no  reason 
to  be,"  said  Neal,  gravely. "I  sometimes  think 
her  attitude — if  that  should  happen  to  be  her 
attitude — somewhat  justifiable."  And  before 
the  freshman  could  recover,  Miss  Burt  and 
her  friend  were  halfway  across  the  campus. 

Patsy  sighed  with  admiration.  "  Oh,  Corne 
lia,  how  I  reverenceyou ! "  she  said. "  I  could  n't 
do  that  to  save  my  soul.  No.  Once  I  tried  it, 
and  the  freshman  laughed  at  me.  I  slunk 
away — positively  slunk." 

But  Neal  did  not  laugh.  "I  can't  see  what 
to  do,"  she  half  whispered,  as  if  to  herself. 
"Next  week — next  week!  Why  then,  why 
then,  it 's  all  over  with  her.  She  's  thrown  up 
the  sponge !  " 

Patsy  peered  into  Cornelia's  face  and  caught 
her  breath.  "Why,  Neal,  do  you  care?  Do 
you  really  care  ?  "  she  said.  Neal  looked  at 
her  defiantly  through  wet  lashes.  "Yes,  I  do 
care.  I  think  it 's  horrible.  To  have  her  beaten 
like  this  ! — I  have  to  go  now.  Be  sure  to  come 
to  Alpha  to-night !  " 

"  When  Cornelia  leaves,  she  leaves  sudden,' ' 

[49] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

said  Kate  Sutton,  from  the  window.  "Coming 
up?" 

Patsy  stamped  slowly  up  the  two  flights, 
and  rummaged  in  a  very  mussy  window-box 
for  a  silk  waist.  Her  room-mate  listened  for 
some  expression  of  grief  or  joy  togive  the  tone 
to  conversation,  but  none  came;  so  she  began 
on  her  own  account. 

"  Martha  says,"  indicating  her  twin,  who 
was  polishing  the  silver  things  with  alcohol 
and  a  preparation  fondly  believed  by  her  to  be 
whiting,  but  which  incessant  use  had  reduced 
to  a  dirty  gritty  gum,  "Martha  says  she  knows 
who  's  going  in  to-night." 

"Oh,  indeed?" 

"Yes.  She  says  it 's  Eleanor  Huntington 
and  Leila  Droch.  She  knows  for  certain." 

"  Great  penetration  she  has — they  Ve  never 
been  mentioned,"  returned  the  senior,  absent- 
mindedly,  grabbing  under  the  chiffonier  for 
missing  hair-pins. 

A  shriek  of  triumph  from  the  twins  brought 
her  to  her  knees. 

"Aha!  I  told  you  they  were  n't  in  it!  Per 
haps  you  '11  believe  me  again !  Perhaps  I  can 't 
find  out  a  thing  or  two!" 

The  twins  shook  hands  delightedly,  and 
Patsy,  irritated  at  her  slip,  grabbed  again  for 
[  50  ] 


A  CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

the  hair-pins,  incidentally  discovering  a  silver 
shoe-horn  and  a  fountain  pen. 

"Very  clever  you  are — very, "she  remarked 
coldly. "Quite  unusual, and  so  young, too.  No 
wonder  your  parents  are  worried!" 

This  was  a  bitter  cut,  for  the  twins  were  in 
dustriously  engaged  in  living  down  the  report 
that  the  Registrar  had  in  their  freshman  year 
received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Sutton  imploring 
her  to  curb  if  necessary  their  passion  for  study, 
which  invariably  brought  on  nervous  head 
aches.  This  was  peculiarly  interesting  to  their 
friends,  who  had  never  remarked  any  undue 
application  on  their  part  and  were,  of  course, 
proportionately  eager  to  caution  them  against 
it.  They  squirmed  visibly  now  and  changed 
their  tone  abruptly. 

"They  say  that  Frances  Wilde  was  terribly 
disappointed  about  making  Alpha — she  'd 
much  rather  have  got  Phi  Kappa,"  said  Kate, 
with  a  mixture  of  malice  and  humility. 

Patsy  was  silent.  Martha  grinned  and  took 
up  the  conversation. 

"  But  her  heart  would  have  been  broken  if 
she  had  n't  gotten  in  this  year,"  she  returned 
amiably. 

Patsy  turned  and  glared  at  them,  one  arm 
in  the  silk  waist. 

c  51  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

"What  utter  nonsense!"  she  broke  out. 
"As  if  it  made  any  matter,  one  way  or  the 
other!  As  if  it  made  two  cents'  worth  of  differ 
ence  !  You  know  perfectly  well  that  it 's  no 
test  at  all — making  a  society.  Look  at  the 
girls  who  are  in!  It's  a  farce,  as  Neal  says — " 
She  stopped  and  scowled  at  them  defiantly. 
The  twins  gasped.  This  from  a  society  girl  to 
them,  as  yet  uncled!  Even  for  a  conversation 
with  the  Sutton  twins,  with  whom,  owing  to 
their  own  contagious  example,  truth  was  bound 
to  fly  out  sooner  or  later,  this  was  unusual.  It 
was  odd  enough  to  discuss  the  societies  at  all 
with  perfectly  eligible  sophomores  who  might 
reasonably  expect  to  enter  one  or  another  some 
time  and  who  were  nevertheless  yet  uncalled; 
but  the  twins  discussed  every  thing  with  every 
body,  utterly  regardless  of  etiquette,  tradition, 
or  propriety, and  their  upper-classroom-mates 
had  long  ago  given  up  any  ideas  of  reserve  and 
discipline  they  might  have  held. 

Martha  gasped  but  promptly  replied. 
"That 's  all  very  well  for  Cornelia  Burt,"  she 
said,  with  the  famous  Sutton  grin.  "Anybody 
who  made  the  Alpha  in  the  first  five  and  was 
known  well  enough  to  have  been  especially 
wanted  in  Phi  Kappa  and  even  begged  to  re 
fuse—  " 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

"  How  did  you  know  that,  Martha  Sutton  ? " 

"Oh!  how  did  I?  The  President  confided 
it  to  me  one  day  when  he  was  calling.  As  I  say, 
Neal  Burt  and  you  can  afford  to  talk;  you  can 
say  it 's  a  bore  and  all  that  and  make  fun  of  the 
meetings — " 

"I  don't!" 

"You  do!  I  heard  you  growling  about  it  to 
Neal.  And  Bertha  Kitts  said  she  'd  about  as 
soon  conduct  a  class  prayer-meeting  as  Phi — 
Oh,  not  to  me,  naturally,  but  I  know  the  girl 
who  heard  the  girl  she  said  it  to !  Heard  her 
tell  about  it,  I  mean. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you,  but  you'd  feel  dif 
ferently  if  you  were  out!  It 's  just  like  being 
a  junior  usher.  There  are  plenty  of  spooks 
in,  but  there  are  n't  many  bright  girls  out. 
Everybody  knows  that  lots  of  the  society  girls 
are  pushed  in  by  their  friends  and  pulled  in 
for  heaven  knows  what — certainly  not  brains ! 
But,  just  the  same,  you  know  well  enough  that 
you  can  count  on  one  hand  all  the  girls  in  the 
college  that  you  'd  think  ought  to  be  in  and 
are  n't.  You  don't  know  anything  about  it,  for 
you  were  sure  of  it  and  everybody  knew  it, 
but  the  ones  that  are  n't,  they  're  the  ones  that 
worry !  Why,  I  know  sophomores  to-day  that 
will  cry  all  night  if  they  don't  get  their  notes 

[53] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

and  their  flowers  and  their  front  seat  in  chapel 
Monday!" 

"Oh,  nonsense!" 

"Oh,nonsense,indeed!Won'tthey,  Katie?" 

"Sure!"  returned  her  sister,  placidly. 

"  I  guess  Alison  Greer  will  cry  all  right,  if 
she  's  not  in!" 

Patsy  bit  her  lip  and  tapped  her  foot  ner 
vously.  Then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
opened  the  door,  turning  to  remark,  "You 
don't  seem  to  be  wasted  away,  either  of  you!" 

"  Oh,  we !  We  're  all  right ! "  replied  Martha, 
comfortably.  "We  never  expected  it  sopho 
more  year,  anyhow.  Nothing  proddy  about 
us,  you  know.  Too  many  clever  girls  in  the 
sophomore  class,  you  see.  But  we  exped:  to 
amble  in  next  year,  we  do.  And  violets  from 
you.  And  supper  at  Boyden's.  Oh,  yes !  Don't 
you  worry  about  us,  Miss  Pattison,  we  're  all 
right!" 

Miss  Pattison  sighed:  sighs  usually  ended 
one's  conversations  with  the  twins,  for  nothing 
else  so  well  expressed  one's  attitude. 

"It 's  a  pity  you  're  so  shrinking,"  she  con 
tented  herself  with  observing.  "  I  'm  afraid 
you  '11  never  come  forward  sufficiently  to  be 
known  well  by  either  society  !"  And  she  went 
down  to  get  her  mail. 

[54] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

ii 

THERE  was  a  full  meeting  of  the  Alpha 
that  Saturday  night.  The  vice-president 
was  lobbying  energetically  in  behalf  of  a  soph 
omore  friend  who  would  prove  the  crown  and 
glory  of  the  society,  if  all  her  upper-class  pa 
troness  said  of  her  could  possibly  be  true. 
There  was  but  one  place  open  for  the  rest  of 
the  term,  for  the  society  had  grown  unusually 
that  year,  and  some  conservative  seniors  had 
pressed  hard  on  the  old  tradition  that  sixty  was 
a  suitable  and  necessary  limit,  and  put  a  mo 
tion  through  to  that  effect,  and  every  possible 
junior  had  been  elected  long  ago.  So  the  vice- 
president  was  distinctly  hopeful.  Amid  the 
buzz  and  clamor  of  fifty-odd  voices,  the  presi 
dent  slapped  the  table  sharply.  "Will  the 
meeting  please  come  to  order  !"  she  cried.  A 
little  rustle,  and  the  handsome  secretary  arose. 
"The  regular  meeting  of  the  Alpha  Society 
was  held — "  and  the  report  went  on. 

"Are  there  any  objections  to  this  report?" 
asked  the  president,  briskly.  "Yes.  It's  fartoo 
long,"  muttered  Suzanne  Endicott,  flippantly. 
The  president  looked  at  her  reproachfully, 
and  added,  "If  not,  we  will  proceed  to  the 
election  of  new  members — I  mean  the  new 
member.  As  you  probably  know,  there  is  but 

[55] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

one  place  left,  according  to  the  recent  amend 
ment,  and  I  think  that  we  will  vote  as  usual 
on  the  three  that  are  before  us,  and  elect  the 
one  having  the  most  affirmative  ballots.  Are 
there  any  objections  to  this  method?"  There 
were  none.  The  vice-president  glanced  ap- 
pealingly  at  the  girl  she  was  not  quite  sure  of 
and  smiled  encouragingly  at  the  sophomore 
she  had  successfully  intimidated.  The  secre 
tary  rose  again.  "The  names  to  be  voted  on 
this  evening  are  Alison  Greer,  '9—,  Kath 
arine  Sutton,  '9—,  Marion  Dustin,  "9—,"  she 
announced.  "I  may  add  that  Miss  Sutton  has 
the  highest  marks  from  the  society,  and  that 
if  we  don't  take  her  this  time  there  is  very 
little  doubt  that  Phi  Kappa  Psi  will.  They  '11 
be  afraid  to  risk  another  meeting." 

"That 's  true,"  said  somebody, as  the  buzz 
ing  began  again.  "We're  carrying  this  point 
a  little  too  far.  I  declare,  it 's  harder  to  decide 
on  the  people  that  are  n't  prods  than  anybody 
would  imagine.  We  know  we  want  'em  some 
time,  but  we  put  it  off  so  long — " 

"Kate  Sutton  's  awfully  bright !  I  think  she 
should  have  been  here  before.  I  've  been 
trembling  for  fear  we  'd  lose  her  by  waiting 
so  long — " 

"Still,  Marion  is  such  a  dear,  and  it 's  pretty 

[56] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

late  for  a  girl  that 's  been  known  so  well  for 
so  long,  without  getting  in,  it  seems  to  me," 
said  the  vice-president,  skilfully.  "Why 
did  n't  she  get  in  before  if  she  was  so  bright  ?" 

"And  there's  Martha,  too.  They 're  just 
alike.  I  think  Martha  's  a  little  brighter,  if 
anything.  Shall  we  have  to  take  'em  both  ? " 

"No.  The  girls  all  say  to  give  her  to  Phi 
Kappa,  and  tell  'em  apart  by  the  pins  !" 

"Like  babies!" 

"How  silly!" 

"To  be  perfectly  frank,  Miss  Leslie,  I 
must  say  I  don't  think  so.  Alison  is  an  aw 
fully  dear  girl,  and  all  that,  but  I  hardly  think 
she  represents  the  element  we  hope  to  get  into 
Alpha.  I  'm  sorry  to  say  so,  but — " 

"The  voting  has  begun,"  said  the  presi 
dent.  "Will  you  hurry,  please?" 

"  Miss  President,"  said  Cornelia  Burt,  ris 
ing  abruptly,  "may  I  speak  to  the  society  be 
fore  the  voting?" 

"Certainly,  Miss  Burt,"  said  the  presi 
dent.  There  was  an  instant  hush,  and  the  girls 
stood  clustered  about  the  ballot-table  in  their 
pretty,  light  dresses — a  charming  sight,  Neal 
thought  vaguely,  as  she  hunted  for  the  words 
to  say. 

"I  know  perfectly  well  that  what  I  am  about 

[57] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

to  propose  is  quite  unconstitutional,"  she  be 
gan,  and  to  her  own  ears  her  voice  seemed  far 
off.  How  many  there  were,  and  how  surprised 
and  attentive  they  looked !  They  were  no  fools, 
as  she  had  said.  They  represented  the  clever 
est  element  in  the  college,  on  the  whole,  and 
they  had,  naturally  enough,  their  own  designs 
and  inclinations — why  should  they  be  turned 
from  them  in  a  moment  ? 

"I  know  that  no  girl  is  eligible  for  voting 
upon  until  she  has  been  read  two  meetings 
before,  and  been  properly  put  up  for  mem 
bership,  and  all  that,"  said  Neal,  quietly,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  Patsy's,  who  tried  to  evade 
them.  Poor  Patsy.  She  wanted  Kate  to  get  the 
society  in  her  sophomore  year !  "  But  I  am 
in  possession  of  certain  facts  that  seem  to  me 
to  warrant  the  breaking  through  the  consti 
tution,  if  such  a  thing  can  ever  be  done." 

The  silence  had  become  intense.  An  omi 
nous  look  of  surprise  deepened  on  the  girls' 
faces,  and  the  president  looked  doubtfully  at 
the  secretary. 

"  I  think  I  am  quite  justified  in  believing 
that  I  have  not  the  reputation  of  a  sentimental 
person,"  said  Cornelia.  She  had  herself  well 
in  hand,  now.  The  opposition  that  she  felt 
nerved  her  to  her  customary  self-possession. 

[58] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

A  little  grin  swept  around  the  room.  She  was, 
apparently,  quite  justified. 

"I  have  been  in  the  Alpha  as  long  as  any 
one  here/'  said  Neal,  quietly  still,  "and  in 
all  this  time  I  have  never  proposed  any  one 
for  membership  in  it.  I  have  voted  whenever 
I  knew  anything  about  the  person  in  ques 
tion,  and  I  have  never  blackballed  but  once.  I 
think  I  may  say  I  have  done  my  share  of 
work  for  the  society — " 

There  was  a  unanimous  murmur  of  deep 
and  unqualified  assent.  "You  have  done  more 
than  your  share/'  said  the  president,  promptly. 

"I  mention  these  things,"  said  Neal,  "in 
order  that  you  may  see  that  I  recognize  the 
need  of  some  apology  for  what  I  am  about  to 
propose.  I  want  to  propose  the  name  of  Wini 
fred  Hastings  to-night,  and  have  her  voted 
on  with  the  rest.  If  it  is  a  possible  thing,  I  want 
her  elected.  That  she  would  be  elected  with 
out  any  doubt,  I  am  certain,  if  only  I  could 
put  the  facts  of  the  case  properly  before  you. 
That  she  must  be  elected,  now,  to-night,  is 
absolutely  necessary,  for  by  another  meeting 
she  will  have  left  the  college — left  it  for  the 
lack  of  just  such  recognition  as  membership 
in  the  society  will  give  her." 

Cornelia  Burt  was  a  born   orator.   Never 

[59] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

was  she  so  happy  as  when  she  felt  an  audi 
ence,  however  small,  given  over  to  her,  eyes 
and  ears,  for  the  moment.  She  stood  straight 
as  a  reed,  and  looked  easily  over  their  faces, 
holding  by  very  force  of  personality  their  at 
tention.  She  spoke  without  the  slightest  hesi 
tation,  yet  perfectly  simply  and  after  no  set 
form.  Insensibly  the  girls  around  her  felt  con 
viction  in  her  very  presence:  they  agreed  with 
her  against  their  will,  while  she  was  speak 
ing. 

"Before  I  go  any  farther,  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  Miss  Hastings  is  no  friend  of  mine," 
said  Neal.  "I  hardly  know  her.  Only  lately 
I  have  learned  the  circumstances  that  led  me 
to  take  this  stepo  I  feel  that  I  must  do  this 
thing.  I  feel  that  we  are  letting  go  from  the 
college  a  girl  whose  failure  in  life,  if  she  fails, 
will  be  in  our  hands.  We  can  elect  these  others 
later:  Winifred  Hastings  leaves  the  college 
next  week.  And,  speaking  as  editor  of  the 
college  paper,  I  must  say  that  she  carries  with 
her  some  of  the  best  literary  material  in  the 
college.  You  ask  me  why  we  have  never  seen 
it —  I  tell  you,  because  she  is  a  girl  who  needs 
encouragement,  and  she  has  never  had  it.  She 
can  do  her  best  only  when  it  is  called  for. 
Some  of  you  may  think  you  know  her — may 

[60] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

think  that  she  is  proud  and  solitary  and  dis 
agreeable:  she  is  not.  'This  is  the  real  girl !" 

And,  stepping  farther  into  the  circle,  Cor 
nelia,  by  an  effort  of  memory  she  has  never 
equalled  since,  told  them,  with  the  simplest 
eloquence,  the  pathetic  story  of  Winifred 
Hastings'  life,  as  she  had  written  it.  She  did 
not  comment — she  only  related.  Her  keen 
literary  appreciation  had  caught  the  most  ef 
fective  parts,  and  she  had  the  dramatic  sense 
to  which  every  successful  speaker  owes  so 
much.  Under  her  touch  the  haughty,  solitary 
figure  of  a  scarcely  known  girl  melted  away 
before  them,  and  they  saw  a  baffled,  eager, 
hungry  soul  that  had  fought  desperately,  and 
was  going  silently  away — beaten. 

Cornelia  Burt  had  made  speeches  before, 
and  she  made  them  afterward,  to  larger  and 
more  excited  college  audiences,  but  she  never 
held  so  many  hearts  in  her  hand  as  she  did 
that  night.  She  was  not  a  particularly  unself 
ish  girl,  but  no  one  who  heard  her  then  ever 
called  her  egotistic  afterward.  Her  whole  na 
ture  was  thrown  with  all  its  force  into  this 
fight — for  it  was  a  fight. 

Perhaps  there  is  nowhere  an  audience  less 
sentimental  and  more  critical  than  a  group  of 
clever  college  girls.  They  see  clearly  for  the 
[61  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

most  part,  and,  like  all  clever  youth,  somewhat 
cruelly.  They  objecT;  to  being  ruled  by  any 
but  their  chosen,  and  however  they  admired 
her,  Cornelia  was  not  their  chosen  leader.  It 
was  not  because  her  speech  was  able,  but  be 
cause  it  was  so  evident  that  she  believed  her 
self  only  the  means  of  preventing  a  calamity 
that  she  was  striving  with  all  her  soul  to 
avert,  that  she  impressed  them  so  deeply. 

For  she  did  impress  them.  When  she  ended, 
it  was  very  quiet  in  the  room.  "  I  have  broken 
a  confidence  in  telling  this,"  she  said.  "The 
girl  herself  would  rather  die  than  have  you 
know  it,  I  'm  sure,  and  now — I  feel  afraid. 
It  has  been  a  bold  stroke;  if  I  have  lost,  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself.  But  oh  !  I  cannot 
have  her  go  !" 

She  sat  down  quickly  and  stared  into  her 
lap.  The  spell  of  her  voice  was  gone,  the  girls 
looked  at  each  other,  and  a  tall,  keen-eyed 
girl  with  glasses  got  up.  "  I  wish  to  say,"  she 
said,  "that  while  Miss  Burt's  story  is  terribly 
convincing,  still  this  may  be  a  little  exagger 
ated,  and,  at  any  rate,  think  of  the  precedent ! 
If  this  should  be  done  very  often — " 

"But  it  won't  be  !"  cried  some  one  with -a 
somewhat  husky  voice,  and  Patsy  rudely  in 
terrupted  the  speaker.  Dear  Patsy !  She 

[62] 


A   CASE   OF   INTERFERENCE 

crushed  her  handkerchief  in  her  hand  and 
said  good-by  to  Kate:  she  would  have  liked 
to  put  her  pin  in  Kate's  shirt-waist,  and  now 
—  now  Phi  Kappa  would  get  her!  When  Patsy 
spoke,  it  was  with  the  voice  of  eleven,  for  she 
carried  at  least  ten  of  the  leading  set  in  the 
Alpha  with  her. 

"  I  think  we  are  all  very  glad  to  realize  that 
there  won't  be  many  such  cases — most  peo 
ple  have  compensations — we  ought  to  be  will 
ing  to  break  the  constitution  again  for  such 
a  thing,  anyhow — and,  Miss  President,  I 
move  that  Miss  Hastings  be  voted  upon  by 
acclamation  !" 

"I  second  the  motion,"  said  the  vice-presi 
dent,  quickly. 

"It  is  moved  and  seconded  that  Miss  Has 
tings  be  voted  upon  by  acclamation,"  said  the 
president.  "All  in  favor — " 

"Miss  Hastings  has  yet  to  be  proposed," 
said  some  one,  after  the  vote. 

The  president  looked  at  Cornelia. 

"I  propose  Winifred  Hastings,  '9—,  as  a 
member  of  the  Alpha  Society,"  said  Cornelia, 
with  flaming  cheeks  and  downcast  eyes.  She 
dared  not  look  at  them.  Were  they  going 
to  punish  her?  She  heard  the  motion  an 
nounced,  she  heard  the  name  put  up. 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

"All  in  favor  please  signify  by  rising/'  said 
the  president,  and  only  when  the  Alpha  rose 
in  a  body  did  Cornelia  lift  her  eyes. 

They  were  all  looking  at  her,  and  she  stepped 
a  little  back. 

"I  cannot  thank  you,"  she  said,  so  low  that 
they  leaned  forward  to  hear.  "It  was  no  affair 
of  mine,  as  I  said.  But — I  think  you — we — 
shall  never  regret  this  election."  And  then 
they  applauded  so  loudly  that  the  freshmen 
on  the  campus  could  not  forbear  peeping  un 
der  the  blinds  to  see  what  they  were  doing. 
They  saw  only  the  president,  however,  as  she 
stepped  back  to  the  table  and  said  with  an  air 
of  relief — for,  after  all,  emotion  is  very  wear 
ing — "We  will  now  proceed  to  the  literary 
programme  of  the  evening!" 

"But  Neal,  dear,"  said  Patsy,  as  they  set 
tled  themselves  to  listen,  "do  you  think  she'll 
stay  ?  (Oh,  Neal !  I  'm  so  proud  of  you !)" 

"  Shut  up,  Patsy ! "  said  Neal,  rudely.  Then, 
as  she  thought  of  what  Miss  Henderson  had 
told  her  of  Winifred  Hastings:  "You  are  the 
only  girl  whose  friendship" — she  blushed. 
Then,  assuming  a  bored  expression,  she  looked 
at  the  girl  who  was  reading.  "  I  fear  there  's 
no  doubt  she  will!"  said  Cornelia  Burt. 


THE   THIRD   STORY 


MISS   BIDDLE  OF  BRTN  MAWR 


Ill 

MISS   BIDDLE   OF   BRYN   MAWR 

"  "W"  WOULD  N'T  have  minded  so  much," 
•     explained  Katherine,  dolefully,  and  not 
I     without  the  suspicion  of  a  sob,  "if  it 
-^   was  n't  that  I  'd  asked  Miss  Hartwell 
and  Miss  Ackley!  I  shall  die  of  embarrass 
ment —  I  shall!  Oh!  why  could  n't  Henrietta 
Riddle  have  waited  a  week  before  she  went 
to  Europe?" 

Her  room-mate,  Miss  Grace  Farwell,  sank 
despairingly  on  the  pile  of  red  floor-cushions 
under  the  window.  "Oh,  Kitten!  you  didn't 
ask  them?  Not  really?"  she  gasped,  staring 
incredulously  at  the  tangled  head  that  peered 
over  the  screen  behind  which  Katherine  was 
splashily  conducting  her  toilet  operations. 

"But  I  did !  I  think  they  're  simply  grand, 
especially  Miss  Hartwell,  and  I  '11  never  have 
any  chance  of  meeting  her,  I  suppose,  and  I 
thought  this  was  a  beautiful  one.  So  I  met  her 
yesterday  on  the  campus  and  I  walked  up  to 
her — I  was  horribly  scared,  but  I  don't  think 
I  showed  it — and, said  I, c Oh,  Miss  Hartwell, 
you  don't  know  me,  of  course,  but  I  'm  Miss 
Sewall,  '9-,  and  I  know  Henrietta  Biddle  of 
Bryn  Mawr,  and  she  's  coming  to  see  me  for 
two  or  three  days,  and  I  'm  going  to  make  a 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

little  tea  for  her — very  informal — and  I  Ve 
heard  her  speak  of  you  and  Miss  Ackley  as 
about  the  only  girls  she  knew  here,  and  I  'd 
love  to  have  you  meet  her  again!" 

Miss  Farwell  laughed  hysterically.  "And 
did  she  accept?"  she  inquired. 

Katherine  wiped  her  face  for  the  third  time 
excitedly.  "Oh,  yes !  She  was  as  sweet  as  peaches 
and  cream!  CI  shall  be  charmed  to  meet  Miss 
Biddle  again,  and  in  your  room,  Miss  Sewall,' 
she  said,  'and  shall  I  bring  Miss  Ackley?*  Oh, 
Grace,  she  's  lovely!  She  is  the  most — " 

"Yes,  I  Ve  no  doubt,"  interrupted  Miss 
Farwell,  cynically;  "all  the  handsome  seniors 
are.  But  what  are  you  going  to  say  to  her  to 
day?" 

Katherine  buried  her  yellow  head  in  the 
towel.  "I  don't  know!  Oh,  Grace!  I  don't 
know,"  she  mourned.  "And  they  say  the 
freshmen  are  getting  so  uppish,  anyway,  and 
if  we  carry  it  off  well,  and  just  make  a  joke  of 
it,  they  '11  think  we  're  awfully  f-f-fresh ! "  Here 
words  failed  her,  and  she  leaned  heavily  on  the 
screen,  which,  as  it  was  old  and  probably  re 
sented  having  been  sold  third-hand  at  a  sec 
ond-hand  price,  collapsed  weakly,  dragging 
with  it  the  Bodenhausen  Madonna,  a  silver 
rack  of  photographs,  and  a  Gibson  Girl  drawn 
[68] 


MISS   RIDDLE   OF   BRYN   MAWR 

in  very  black  ink  on  a  very  white  ground. 

"And  if  we  are  apologetic  and  meek,"  con 
tinued  Miss  Farwell,  easily,  apparently  undis 
turbed  by  the  confusion  consequent  to  the 
downfall  of  a  piece  of  furniture  known  to  be 
somewhat  erratic,  "they'll  laugh  at  us  or  be 
bored.  We  shall  be  known  as  the  freshmen 
who  invited  seniors  and  Faculty  and  town- 
people  to  meet — nobody  at  all !  A  pretty  repu 
tation!" 

"But,  Grace,  we  couldn't  help  it!  Such 
things  will  happen  !"  Katherine  was  pinning 
the  Gibson  Girl  to  the  wall,  in  bold  defiance 
of  the  matron's  known  views  on  that  subject. 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  they  must  n't  happen 
to  freshmen  !"  her  room-mate  returned  sen- 
tentiously. "  How  many  Faculty  did  you  ask  ? " 

"I  asked  Miss  Parker,  because  she  fitted 
Henrietta  for  college,  at  Archer  Hall,  and  I 
asked  Miss  Williams,  because  she  knows 
Henrietta's  mother — Oh  !  Miss  Williams 
will  freeze  me  to  death  when  she  comes  here 
and  sees  just  us  ! — and  I  asked  Miss  Dodge, 
because  she  knows  a  lot  of  Bryn  Mawr  peo 
ple.  Then  Mrs.  Patton  on  Elm  Street  was  a 
school  friend  of  Mrs.  Biddle's,  and — oh  ! 
Grace,  I  cant  manage  them  alone  !  Let 's  tell 
them  not  to  come  !" 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

"And  what  shall  we  do  with  the  sand 
wiches  ?  And  the  little  cakes  ?  And  the  lem 
ons  that  I  sliced  ?  And  the  tea-cups  and 
spoons  I  borrowed  ?  And  that  pint  of  extra 
thick  cream  ?"  Miss  Farwell  checked  off  these 
interesting  items  on  her  fingers,  and  kicked 
the  floor-cushions  to  point  the  question. 

"Oh!  I  don't  know!  Isn't  there  any 
chance — " 

"No,  goosey,  there  is  n't.  See  here  !"  Grace 
pulled  down  a  letter  with  a  special  delivery* 
stamp  from  the  desk  above  her  head,  and 
read  with  emphasis: 

DEAR  Kitten,  —  Just  a  line  to  say  that  Aunt 
Mary  has  sent  for  me  at  three  days'  notice  to 
go  to  Paris  with  her  for  a  year.  It  V  now  or  never, 
you  know,  and  I  *ve  left  the  college,  and  will  come 
back  to  graduate  with  '9—.  So  sorry  I  cant  see 
you  before  I  go.  Had  looked  forward  to  a  'very 
interesting  time,  renewing  my  own  freshman 
days,  and  all  that.  Please  send  my  blue  cloth  suit 
right  on  to  Philadelphia  C.  O.  D.  when  it  comes 
to  you.  I  hope  you  had  nt  gotten  anything  up  for 
me.  With  much  love, 

Bryn  Mawr,  March  5.          HENRIETTA  BlDDLE. 

"  I  don't  think  there  's  much  chance,  my 
dear." 


MISS   RIDDLE   OF   BRYN   MAWR 

"No,"  said  Katherine,  sadly,  and  with  a 
final  pat  administered  to  the  screen,  which  still 
wobbled  unsteadily.  "No,  I  suppose  there 
is  n't.  And  it 's  eleven  o'clock.  They  '11  be 
here  at  four !  Oh  !  and  I  asked  that  pretty 
junior,  Miss  Pratt,  you  know.  Henrietta 
knew  her  sister.  She  was  in  '8-." 

"Ah,"  returned  Miss  Farwell,  with  a  sus 
picious  sweetness,  "why  did  n't  you  ask  a  few 
more,  Katherine,  dear  ?  What  with  the  list  we 
made  out  together  and  these  last  extra  ones — " 

"But  I  thought  there  was  n't  any  use  hav 
ing  the  largest  double  room  in  the  house,  if 
we  could  n't  have  a  decent-sized  party  in  it ! 
And  think  of  all  those  darling,  thin  little  sand 
wiches  ! — Oh  well,  we  might  just  as  well  be 
sensible  and  carry  the  thing  through,  Gracie  ! 
But  I  am  just  as  afraid  as  I  can  be  :  I  tell  you 
that.  And  Miss  Williams  will  freeze  me  stiff." 
The  yellow  hair  was  snugly  braided  and  wound 
around  by  now,  and  a  neat  though  worried 
maiden  sat  on  the  couch  and  punched  the 
Harvard  pillow  reflectively. 

"  Never  mind  her,  Kitten,  but  just  go  ahead. 
You  know  Caroline  Wilde  said  it  was  all  right 
to  ask  her  if  she  was  Miss  Biddle's  mother's 
friend,  and  there  was  n't  time  to  take  her  all 
around,  and  you  know  how  nice  Miss  Parker 

[71  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

was  about  it.  We  can't  help  it,  as  you  say,  and 
we  '11  go  and  get  the  flowers  as  we  meant  to. 
Have  you  anything  this  hour?" 

With  her  room-mate  to  back  her,  to  quote 
the  young  lady  herself,  Miss  Sewall  felt  equal 
to  almost  any  social  function.  Terrifying  as  her 
position  appeared — and  strangely  enough,  the 
seniors  appalled  her  far  more  than  the  Faculty 
— there  was  yet  a  certain  excitement  in  the  situ 
ation.  What  should  she  say  to  them  ?  Would 
they  be  kind  about  it,  or  would  they  all  turn 
around  and  go  home?  Would  they  think — 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  interrupted  Grace  the 
practical,  as  these  doubts  were  thrust  upon 
her.  "If  they're  ladies,  as  I  suppose  they 
are,  of  course  they  '11  stay  and  make  it  just  as 
pleasant  for  us  as  they  can.  They '11  see  how 
it  is.  Think  what  we  'd  do,  ourselves,  you 
know!" 

They  went  down  the  single  long  street,  with 
the  shops  on  either  side,  a  red-capped,  golf- 
caped  pair  of  friends,  like  nine  hundred  other 
girls,  yet  different  from  them  all.  And  they 
chattered  of  Livy  and  little  cakes  and  Trigo 
nometry  and  pleated  shirt-waists  and  basket 
ball  and  Fortnightly  Themes  like  all  the 
others,  but  in  their  little  way  they  were  very 
social  heroines,  setting  their  teeth  to  carry  by 


MISS   BIDDLE   OF   BRYN   MAWR 

storm  a  position  that  many  an  older  woman 
would  have  found  doubtful. 

They  stopped  at  a  little  bakery,  well  down 
the  street,  to  order  some  rolls  for  the  girl 
across  the  hall  from  them,  who  had  planned 
to  breakfast  in  luxury  and  alone  on  chocolate 
and  grape-fruit  the  next  morning.  "  Miss  Car 
ter,  24  Washburn,"  said  Grace,  carelessly, 
when  Katherine  whispered,  "Look  at  her! 
Isn't  that  funny  ?  Why,  Grace,  just  see  her  !" 

"See  who — whom,  I  mean  ?  (only  I  hate  to 
say  cwhom.')  Who  is  it,  Kitten?" 

Katherine  was  staring  at  the  clerk,  a  tall, 
handsome  girl,  with  masses  of  heavy  black 
hair  and  an  erect  figure.  As  she  went  down 
to  the  back  of  the  shop  again,  Katherine's 
eyes  followed  her  closely. 

"It 's  that  girl  that  used  to  be  in  the  Candy 
Kitchen — don't  you  remember?  I  told  you 
then  that  she  looked  so  much  like  my  friend 
Miss  Biddle.  And  then  the  Candy  Kitchen 
failed  and  I  suppose  she  came  here.  And  she  's 
just  Henrietta's  height,  too.  You  know  Hen 
rietta  stands  very  straight  and  frowns  a  little, 
and  so  did  this  girl  when  you  gave  Alice's  num 
ber  and  she  said/ Thirty-four  or  twenty-four?' 
Is  n't  it  funny  that  we  should  see  her  now  ? — 
Oh,  dear  !  If  only  she  were  Henrietta  !" 

.[73  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Grace  stared  at  the  case  of  domestic  bread 
and  breathed  quickly.  "Does  she  really  look 
like  her,  Kitten?"  she  said. 

"Oh  yes,  indeed.  It 's  quite  striking.  Hen 
rietta  's  quite  a  type,  you  know — nothing  un 
usual,  only  very  dark  and  tall  and  all  that.  Of 
course  there  are  differences,  though." 

"What  differences  ?"  said  Grace,  still  look 
ing  intently  at  the  domestic  bread. 

"Oh,  Henrietta's  eyes  are  brown,  and  this 
girl's  are  black.  And  Henrietta  has  n't  any 
dimple,  and  her  hands  are  prettier.  And  Hen 
rietta's  waist  is  n't  so  small,  and  she  has  n't 
nearly  so  much  hair,  I  should  say.  But  then, 
I  have  n't  seen  her  for  a  year,  and  probably 
there  's  a  greater  difference  than  I  think." 

"How  long  is  it  since  those  seniors  and  the 
Faculty  saw  Henrietta?"  said  Grace,  staring 
now  at  a  row  of  layer  chocolate-cakes. 

Her  room-mate  started.  "Why — why, 
Grace,  what  do  you  mean  ?  It 's  two  years, 
Henrietta  wrote,  I  think.  And  Miss  Parker 
and  Miss  Williams  have  n't  seen  her  for  much 
longer  than  that.  But — but — you  don't  mean 
anything,  Grace?" 

Grace  faced  her  suddenly.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"I  do.  You  may  think  that  because  I  just  go 
right  along  with  this  thing,  I  don't  care  at  all. 

[74]. 


MISS   RIDDLE   OF   BRYN   MAWR 

But  I  do.  I  'm  awfully  scared.  I  hate  to  think 
of  that  Miss  Ackley  lifting  her  eyebrows — the 
way  she  will !  And  Miss  Hartwell  said  once 
when  somebody  asked  if  she  knew  Judge  Far- 
well's  daughter, c  Oh,  dear  me — I  suppose  so ! 
And  everybody  else  in  her  class — theoreti 
cally  !  But  practically  I  rarely  observe  them  !' 
Ugh  !  She  '11  observe  me  to-day,  I  hope  !" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  suppose  she  will.  And  me  too. 
But—" 

"Oh,  yes  !  But  if  nobody  knows  how  Miss 
Biddle  looks,  and  she  was  going  to  stay  at  the 
hotel,  anyway,  and  it  would  only  be  for  two 
hours,  and  everything  would  be  so  simple — " 

Katherine's  cheeks  grew  very  red  and  her 
breath  came  fast.  "  But  would  we  dare  ?  Would 
she  be  willing?  Would  it  be — " 

"Oh,  my  dear,  it's  only  a  courtesy  !  And 
everybody  will  think  it 's  all  right,  and  the 
thing  will  go  beautifully,  and  Miss  Biddle,  if 
she  has  any  sense  of  humor — " 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  Henrietta  would  only  be 
amused — oh,  so  amused  !  And  it  would  be 
such  a  heavenly  relief  after  all  the  worry.  We 
could  send  her  off  on  the  next  train — Hen 
rietta,  you  know — and  dress  makes  such  a 
difference  in  a  girl !" 

"And  I  think  she  would  if  we  asked  her 

[75  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

just  as  a  favor — it  would  n't  be  a  question  of 
money  !  Oh,  Katherine !  I  could  cry  for  joy 
if  she  would !" 

"She  'd  like  to,  if  she  has  any  fun  in  her — 
it  would  be  a  game  with  some  point  to  it !  And 
will  you  ask  her,  or  shall  I  ? " 

They  were  half  in  joke  and  half  in  earnest : 
it  was  a  real  crisis  to  them.  They  were  only 
freshmen,  and  they  had  invited  the  seniors 
and  the  Faculty.  And  two  of  the  most  promi 
nent  seniors  !  Whom  they  had  n't  known  at 
all !  They  had  a  sense  of  humor,  but  they  were 
proud,  too,  and  they  had  a  woman's  horror  of 
an  unsuccessful  social  function.  They  felt  that 
they  were  doomed  to  endless  joking  at  the 
hands  of  the  whole  college,  and  this  apprehen 
sion,  though  probably  exaggerated,  nerved 
them  to  their  coup  d'etat. 

Grace  walked  down  the  shop.  "I  will  ask 
her,"  she  said. 

Katherine  stood  with  her  back  turned  and 
tried  not  to  hear.  Suppose  the  girl  should  be 
insulted  ?  Suppose  she  should  be  afraid  ?  Now 
that  there  was  a  faint  hope  of  success,  she  real 
ized  how  frightened  and  discouraged  she  had 
been.  For  it  would  be  a  success,  she  saw  that. 
Nobody  would  have  had  Miss  Biddle  to  talk 
with  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  any  how,  they 

[76] 


MISS   BIDDLE   OF   BRYN   MAWR 

had  asked  such  a  crowd.  And  yet  she  would 
have  been  the  centre  of  the  whole  affair. 

"  Katherine,"  said  a  voice  behind  her,  "let 
me  introduce  Miss  Brooks,  who  has  consented 
to  help  us  !" 

Katherine  held  out  her  hands  to  the  girl. 
"Oh,  thank  you  !  thank  you  !"  she  said. 

The  girl  laughed.  "I  think  it 's  queer,"  she 
said,  "but  if  you  are  in  such  a  fix,  I  'd  just  as 
lief  help  you  as  not.  Only  I  shall  give  you 
away — I  shan't  know  what  to  say." 

Grace  glanced  at  Katherine.  Then  she 
proved  her  right  to  all  the  praise  she  afterward 
accepted  from  her  grateful  room-mate.  "That 
will  be  very  easy/'  she  said  sweetly.  "Miss 
Biddle,  whom  you  will — will  represent,  speaks 
very  rarely:  she  's  not  at  all  talkative !  " 

Katherine  gasped.  "Oh,  no!"  she  said 
eagerly,  "she's  very  statuesque,  you  know, 
and  keeps  very  still  and  straight,  and  just  looks 
in  your  eyes  and  makes  you  thinkshe's  talking. 
She  says  ( Really  ? '  and  c  Fancy,  now  ! '  and  f  I 
expect  you  're  very  jolly  here,'  and  then  she 
smiles.  You  could  do  that." 

"Yes,  I  could  do  that,"  said  the  girl. 

"Can  you  come  to  the  hotel  right  after  din 
ner?  "  said  Grace,  competently, "  and  we  '11  cram 
you  for  an  houror  so  on  Miss  Biddle's  affairs." 
[77  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

The  girl  laughed.  "  Why,  yes/'  she  said,  "  I 
guess  I  can  get  off." 

So  they  left  her  smiling  at  them  from  the 
domestic  bread,  and  at  two  o'clock  they  car 
ried  Miss  Henrietta  Riddle's  dress-suit  case  to 
the  hotel  and  took  Miss  Brooks  to  her  room. 
And  they  sat  her  on  a  sofa  and  told  her  what 
they  knew  of  her  alma  mater  and  her  relatives 
and  her  character  generally.  And  she  amazed 
them  by  a  very  comprehensive  grasp  of  the 
whole  affair  and  an  aptitude  for  mimicry  that 
would  have  gotten  her  a  star  part  in  the  senior 
dramatics.  With  a  few  corrections  she  spoke 
very  good  English,  and  "as  she'd  only  have 
to  answer  questions,  anyhow,  she  need  n't  talk 
long  at  a  time,"  they  told  each  other. 

She  put  up  her  heavy  hair  in  a  twisted  crown 
on  her  head,  and  they  put  the  blue  cloth  gown 
on  her,  and  covered  the  place  in  the  front, 
where  it  did  n't  fit,  with  a  beautiful  fichu  that 
Henrietta  had  apparently  been  led  of  Provi 
dence  to  tuck  in  the  dress-suit  case.  And  she 
rode  up  in  a  carriage  with  them,  very  much 
excited,  but  with  a  beautiful  color  and  glowing 
eyes,  and  a  smile  that  brought  out  the  dimple 
that  Henrietta  never  had. 

They  showed  her  the  room  and  the  sand 
wiches  and  the  tea,  and  they  got  into  their 

[78  ] 


MISS   RIDDLE   OF   BRYN   MAWR 

clothes,  not  speaking,  except  when  a  great  box 
with  three  bunches  of  English  violets  was  left 
at  their  doorwith  Grace's  card.  Then  Katherine 
said,  "You  dear  thing !  "  And  Miss  Brooks 
smiled  as  they  pinned  hers  on  and  said  softly, 
"Fancy,  now !  " 

And  then  they  were  n't  afraid  for  her  any 
more. 

When  the  pretty  Miss  Pratt  came,  a  little 
after  four,  with  Miss  Williams,  she  smiled 
with  pleasure  at  the  room,  all  flowers  and  tea 
and  well-dressed  girls,  with  a  tall,  handsome 
brunette  in  a  blue  gown  with  a  beautiful  lace 
bib  smiling  gently  on  a  crowd  of  worshippers, 
and  saying  little  soft  sentences  that  meant  any 
thing  that  was  polite  and  self-possessed. 

Close  by  her  was  her  friend  Miss  Sewall, 
of  the  freshman  class,  who  sweetly  answered 
half  the  questions  about  Bryn  Mawr  that  Miss 
Biddle  could  n't  find  time  to  answer,  and 
steered  people  away  who  insisted  on  talking 
with  her  too  long.  Miss  Farwell,  also  of  the 
freshman  class,  assisted  her  room-mate  in  re 
ceiving,  and  passed  many  kinds  of  pleasant 
food,  laughing  a  great  deal  at  what  everybody 
said  and  chatting  amicably  and  unabashed 
with  the  two  seniors  of  honor,  who  openly 
raved  over  Miss  Biddle  of  Bryn  Mawr. 

[79] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

As  soon  as  Katherine  had  said,  "  May  I  pre 
sent  Miss  Hartwell  —  Miss  Ackley  ?  "  they 
took  their  stand  by  the  stately  stranger  and 
talked  to  her  as  much  as  was  consistent  with 
propriety. 

"Is  n't  she  perfectly  charming  !  "  they  said 
to  Miss  Parker,  and  "Yes,  indeed,"  replied 
that  lady,  "I  should  have  known  Netta  any 
where.  She  is  just  what  I  had  thought  she 
would  be  ! " 

And  Miss  Williams,  far  from  freezing  the 
pretty  hostess,  patted  her  shoulder  kindly. 
"Henrietta  is  quite  worth  coming  to  see,"  she 
said  with  her  best  and  most  exquisite  manner. 
"  I  have  heard  of  the  Bry  n  Mawr  style,  and  now 
I  am  convinced.  I  wish  all  our  girls  had  such 
dignity — such  a  feeling  for  the  right  word  !  " 

And  they  had  the  grace  to  blush.  They 
knew  who  had  taught  Henrietta  Biddle  Brooks 
that  right  word  ! 

At  six  o'clock  Miss  Biddle  had  to  take  the 
Philadelphia  express.  She  had  only  stopped 
over  for  the  tea.  And  so  the  girls  of  the  house 
could  not  admire  her  over  the  supper-table. 
But  they  probably  appreciated  her  more.  For 
after  all,  as  they  decided  in  talking  her  over 
later,  it  was  n't  so  much  what  she  said,  as  the 
way  she  looked  when  she  said  it ! 
[80] 


MISS   RIDDLE   OF   BRYN   MAWR 

But  only  a  dress-suit  case  marked  H.  L.  B. 
took  the  Philadelphia  express  that  night,  and 
a  tall,  red-cheeked  girl  in  a  mussy  checked  suit 
left  the  hotel  with  a  bunch  of  violets  in  her 
hand  and  a  reminiscent  smile  on  her  lips. 

"We  simply  can't  thank  you;  we  haven't 
any  words.  You  Ve  helped  us  give  the  nicest 
party  two  freshmen  ever  gave,  if  it  is  any 
pleasure  to  you  to  know  that,"  said  Katherine. 
"And  now  you  're  only  not  to  speak  of  it." 

"Oh,  no!  I  shan't  speak  of  it,"  said  the 
girl.  "You  need  n't  be  afraid.  Nobody  that 
I  'd  tell  would  believe  me,  very  much,  any 
how.  I  'm  glad  I  could  help  you,  and  I  had 
a  lovely  time — lovely  !  " 

She  smiled  at  them:  the  slow,  sweet  smile 
of  Henrietta  Biddle,late  of  BrynMawr.  "You 
College  ladies  are  certainly  queer — but  you  're 
smart !  "  said  Miss  Brooks  of  the  bakery. 


[81  ] 


THE    FOURTH    STORY 


BISCUITS  EX  MACHINA 


IV 
BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

B.  S.  KITTS — this  was  the  signature 
she  had  affixed  in  a  neat  clerical  back 
hand  to  all  her  written  papers  since 
the  beginning  of  freshman  year;  and 
she  had  of  course  been  called  Biscuits  as  soon 
as  she  had  found  her  own  particular  little  set  of 
girls  and  settled  down  to  that  peculiar  form  of 
intimacy  which  living  in  barracks,  however  ad 
vantageously  organized,  necessitates.  She  had 
a  sallow  irregular  face,  fine  brown  eyes  sur 
rounded  with  tiny  wrinkles,  a  taste  for  Thack 
eray,  and  a  keen  sense  of  humor.  It  was  the 
last  which  was  subsequently  responsible  for 
this  story  about  her. 

She  was  quite  unnoticed  for  two  or  three 
years,  which  is  a  very  good  thing  for  a  girl. 
During  that  time  she  quietly  took  soundings 
and  laid  in  material,  presumably,  for  those  sa 
tiric  characterizations  which  were  the  terror  of 
her  undergraduate  enemies  and  the  concealed 
discomfort  of  those  in  high  places.  During  her 
junior  year  she  began  to  be  considered  terri 
bly  clever,  and  though  she  was  never  what  is 
known  as  a  Prominent  Senior,  she  had  her  lit 
tle  triumphs  here  and  there,  and  in  the  matter 
of  written  papers  she  was  a  source  of  great  com- 

[85] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

fort  to  those  whom  custom  compels  to  demand 
such  tributes. 

She  was  the  kind  of  girl  who,  though  well 
known  in  her  own  class,  is  quite  unobserved 
of  the  lower  classes,  and  this,  if  it  deprived  her 
of  the  admirations  and  attentions  bestowed  on 
the  prominent,  saved  her  the  many  worries  and 
wearinesses  incident  to  trying  to  please  every 
body  at  once — the  business  of  the  over-popu 
lar.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  time,  which  may 
seem  absurd,  but  which  is  really  quite  possible 
if  one  keeps  positively  offcommittees,  is  neither 
musical  nor  athletic,  and  shuns  courses  involv 
ing  laboratory  work.  It  is  of  great  assistance 
also  in  this  connection  to  elect  English  Lit 
erature  copiously,  when  one  has  read  most  of 
the  works  in  question  and  can  send  home  for 
the  reference  books,  thus  saving  an  immense 
amount  of  fruitless  loitering  about  crowded 
libraries. 

Biscuits  employed  the  time  thus  gained  in 
a  fashion  apparently  purposeless.  She  loafed 
about  and  observed,  with  Vanity  Fair  under 
one  arm  and  an  apple  in  the  other  hand.  She 
was  never  the  subject  or  the  object  of  a  violent 
friendship;  she  was  one  of  five  or  six  clever 
girls  who  hung  together  consistently  after 
sophomore  year,  bickering  amicably  and  in- 
[86] 


BISCUITS    EX   MACHINA 

dulging  in  mutual  contumely  when  together, 
defending  one  another  promptly  when  apart. 
The  house  president  spoke  of  them  bitterly 
as  blase  and  critical;  the  lady-in-charge  re 
marked  suspiciously  the  unusual  chance  which 
invariably  seated  them  together  at  the  end 
of  the  table  at  the  regular  drawing  for  seats; 
the  collector  for  missions  found  them  sceptical 
and  inclined  to  ribaldry  if  pushed  too  far;  but 
the  Phi  Kappa  banked  heavily  on  their  united 
efforts,  and  more  than  usually  idiotic  class 
meetings  meekly  bowed  to  what  they  them 
selves  scornfully  referred  to  afterward  as  "  their 
ordinary  horse-sense." 

One  of  the  members  of  this  little  group  was 
Martha  Augusta  Williams.  Sometimes  she  re 
tired  from  it  and  devoted  herself  to  solitude, 
barely  replying  to  questions  and  obscurely 
intimating  that  to  ennui  such  as  hers  the  prat 
tle  of  the  immature  and  inexperienced  could 
hardly  be  supposed  even  by  themselves  to  be 
endurable ;  sometimes  she  returned  to  it  with 
the  air  of  one  willing  to  impart  to  such  a  body 
the  mellow  cynicism  of  a  tolerant  if  fatigued 
femme  du  monde.  In  the  intervals  of  her  retire 
ment  she  wrote  furiously  at  long-due  themes, 
which  took  the  form  of  Richard  Harding 
Davis  stories — she  did  them  very  well — or 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

modern  and  morbid  verses  of  a  nature  to  dis 
turb  the  more  conservative  of  those  who  heard 
them.  At  any  expression  of  disturbance  Mar 
tha  would  elaborately  suppress  a  three-vol 
ume  smile  and  murmur  something  about 
"meat  for  babes;"  a  performance  which  de 
lighted  her  friends — especially  Biscuits — be 
yond  measure.  Her  shelves  bristled  with  yellow 
French  novels,  and  on  her  bureau  a  great  ivory 
skull  with  a  Japanese  paper  snake  carelessly 
twined  through  it  impressed  stray  freshmen 
tremendously.  She  cut  classes  elaborately  and 
let  her  work  drop  ostentatiously  in  the  middle 
of  the  term,  appearing  at  mid-years  with  ringed 
eyes  and  an  air  of  toleration  strained  to  the 
breaking  point.  She  slept  till  nine  and  wan 
dered  lazily  to  coffee  and  toast  at  Boyden's 
an  hour  later,  at  least  three  times  a  week,  with 
an  air  that  would  have  done  credit  to  one  of 
Ouida's  noblemen. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  Martha  was  not 
happy.  The  disapproval  of  the  lady-in-charge, 
the  suspicions  of  the  freshmen,  the  periodical 
discussions  with  members  of  the  Faculty,  who 
"regretted  to  be  obliged  to  mark,"  etc., "when 
they  realized  perfectly  that  she  was  capable/' 
etc., — all  these  alleviated  her  trouble  a  little, 
but  the  fads  remained  that  her  own  particu- 
[88] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

lar  set  would  never  treat  her  seriously,  and 
that  her  name  was  Martha  Augusta  Williams. 
Fancy  feeling  such  feelings,  and  thinking  such 
thoughts,  and  bearing  the  name  of  Martha 
Augusta  Williams  !  It  is,  to  say  the  least,  dis 
piriting.  And  nobody  had  ever  called  her  any 
thing  else.  Harriet  Williams  was  called,  indif 
ferently,  Billie  and  Willie  and  Sillie.  Martha 
Underhill  took  her  choice  of  Mattie,  Nancy, 
and  Sister.  A  girl  whose  name  was  Anna  Au 
gusta  Something  had  been  hailed  as  Gustavus 
Adolphus  from  her  freshman  year  on;  but 
below  her  most  daring  flights  of  fiction  must 
ever  appear  those  three  ordinary,  not  to  say 
stodgy,  names.  That  alone  would  have  soured 
a  temper  not  too  inclined  to  regard  life  with 
favor. 

Martha  might  have  lived  down  the  name, 
but  she  was  assured  that  never  while  Bertha 
Kitts  remained  alive  would  she  be  able  to  ap 
pear  really  wickedly  interesting.  For  Biscuits 
would  tell  the  Story.  Tell  it  with  variations 
and  lights  and  shades  and  explanations  adapted 
to  the  audience.  And  it  never  seemed  to  pall. 
Yet  it  was  simple — horribly  simple. 

Martha  had  invited  a  select  body  of  sopho 
mores  to  go  with  her  to  the  palm-reader's. 
There  were  two  clever  ones,  who  vastly  ad- 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

mired  her  Richard  Harding  Davis  tales,  two 
curious  ones,  who  openly  begged  for  her  opin 
ions  and  thrilled  at  her  epigrams  on  Love 
and  Life  and  Experience,  and,  in  an  evil  hour, 
the  Sutton  twins,  whom  she  admitted  into  the 
occasion  partly  to  impress  them,  and  partly 
so  that  if  anything  really  fascinating  should 
come  to  light,  Kate  Sutton  could  impart  it  to 
her  room-mate,  Patsy  Pattison. 

When  they  were  assembled  in  the  palm- 
reader's  parlor,  Martha  gravely  motioned  the 
others  to  go  before  her,  and  they  took  their 
innocent  turns  before  the  little  velvet  cush 
ion.  The  Twins  were  admirably  struck  off  in 
a  few  phrases,  to  the  delight  of  their  friends, 
and  the  palm-reader's  reputation  firmly  estab 
lished.  In  the  case  of  one  of  the  curious  girls, 
peculiar  and  private  events  were  hinted  at 
that  greatly  impressed  her,  for  "how  could 
she  have  known  that,  girls?"  The  clever  girls 
were  comforted  with  fame  and  large  "scrib 
bler's  crosses,"  also  wealthy  marriages  and  so 
cial  careers,  but  they  looked  enviously  at 
Martha,  nevertheless,  and  she  smiled  mater 
nally  on  them,  as  was  right.  There  remained 
only  the  other  quiet  little  girl,  and  she  mod 
estly  suggested  waiting  till  another  day,  "so 
there  '11  be  lots  of  time  for  yours,  Miss  Will- 

[90] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

iams;"  but  Martha  smiled  kindly  and  waved 
her  to  the  seat,  suggesting  that  hers  might 
not  be  a  long  session,  with  an  amused  glance 
at  the  empty,  little  pink  palm. 

The  palm-reader  turned  and  twisted  and 
patted  and  asked  her  age,  and  finally  an 
nounced  that  it  was  a  remarkable  hand.  The 
dying  interest  revived,  and  even  Martha's 
,  eyebrows  went  up  with  amazement  as  the  seer 
spoke  darkly  of  immense  influence;  tact  to 
the  nth  degree;  unusual  amount  of  experience, 
or  at  the  least,  "intuitional  discoveries;"  two 
great  artistic  means  of  expression;  previous 
affairs  of  the  heart,  and  an  inborn  capacity  for 
ruling  the  destinies  of  others — marked  re 
semblance  to  the  hands  of  Cleopatra  and  Sara 
Bernhardt.  It  was  hands  like  that  that  moved 
the  world,  she  said.  The  sophomores  regarded 
their  friend  with  interest  and  awe,  noted  that 
she  blushed  deeply  at  portions  of  the  revela 
tion,  recollected  her  Sunday  afternoon  impro 
visations  at  the  piano  and  her  request  for  a 
more  advanced  course  in  harmony,  and  at 
tached  a  hitherto  unfelt  importance  to  her 
heavy  mails. 

Martha  may  have  regretted  her  politeness, 
but  she  smothered  her  surprise,  sank,  with  an 
abstracted  air,  upon  the  chair  before  the  cush- 

[91  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

ion,  and  with  a  face  from  which  all  emotion 
had  been  withdrawn  and  eyes  which  defied 
any  wildest  revelation  to  disturb  their  settled 
ennui,  awaited  the  event.  The  palm-reader 
glanced  at  the  back  of  the  slim  hand,  noted 
the  face,  touched  the  finger  tips. 

"How  old  are  you,  please?"  she  asked. 
Martha  wearily  announced  that  she  was 
twenty-one.  She  was  conscious  of  its  being 
a  terribly  ordinary  age.  The  palm-reader 
nodded.  "Ah  !"  she  said  easily.  "Well,  come 
to  me  again  in  a  year  or  two.  I  can't  really 
tell  much  now." 

Martha  gasped  at  her.  "You  can't  tell 
much!" 

The  palm-reader  took  her  hand  again. 
"There's  nothing  much  to  tell!"  she  ex 
plained.  "The  hand  isn't  really  developed 
yet — it 's  the  opposite  from  the  last  young 
lady's,  you  might  say." 

She  became  conscious  of  a  cold  silence 
through  the  room,  and  added  a  few  details. 
"There's  a  good  general  ability ;  no  particular 
line  of  talent,  I  should  say;  orderly,  regular 
habits;  a  very  kind  heart;  I  can't  see  any 
events  in  particular;  you  Ve  led  a  very  quiet 
life,  I  should  say;  fond  of  reading;  I  shouldn't 
say  you  'd  met  many  people  or  travelled 

[92  ] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

much"  —  she  scrutinized  the  hand  more 
closely — "you  '11  probably  develop  a  strong 
religious  feeling — " 

She  stopped  and  smiled  deprecatingly.  "It 
is  really  impossible  to  say  very  much,"  she 
said,  "just  now.  It 's  what  we  call  an  imma 
ture  hand  !" 

For  months  after  that  Martha  woke  in  the 
night  and  tried  to  forget  the  nightmare  of  a 
terrible  figure  that  led  her  to  an  amphitheatre 
of  grinning  enemies,  and  leered  at  her :  //  V 
what  we  call  an  Immature  Hand  I  She  could 
have  suppressed  the  others,  but  the  Sutton 
twins  were  beyond  earthly  and  human  sup 
pression.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  never  met 
them  or  passed  them  in  a  corridor  without 
hearing  their  jovial  assurance:  "Oh,  Martha 
Williams  is  all  right !  Why,  the  idea  !  She  's 
as  kind  a  girl  as  ever  lived — she  's  nothing 
like  that  story.  Gracious,  no  !  She 's  never 
been  to  Paris — she  lives  in  Portland.  Why, 
her  father's  a  Sunday  School  Superintendent! 
Oh,  bother !  She  's  as  good  as  Alberta  May, 
every  bit !  She  has  a  strong  religious — "  and 
somebody  passed  on,  assured — heavens,  per 
haps  admiring  her  character !  At  such  times 
Martha  would  read  furiously  in  her  French 
novels  or  regard  the  skull  pensively  or  sit  up 

[93  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

all  night,  which  annoyed  her  room-mate  and 
the  lady-in-charge.  Her  room-mate  was  an 
absolutely  unimportant  person,  and  does  not 
come  into  the  story  at  all. 

It  is  now  time  to  revert  to  the  Twins. 
When  they  appeared  in  the  house,  two  sol 
emn-eyed,  pigtailed  imps  from  Buffalo,  they 
were  packed  away  together  in  a  double  room 
on  the  third  floor,  and  except  for  their  amaz 
ing  resemblance,  were  absolutely  unnoted.  The 
matron  uneasily  fancied  a  certain  undue  dis 
turbance  on  the  third  floor,  the  evening  of 
their  arrival,  but  on  going  to  that  level  she 
found  all  as  still  as  the  grave,  and  immedi 
ately  went  back  downstairs.  It  is  only  due  to 
her,  however,  to  say  that  she  never  again 
made  such  an  error.  From  that  time  on  any 
abnormal  quiet  in  the  house  was  to  her  as  the 
trumpet  to  the  war-horse;  and  she  mounted 
unerringly  to  the  all-too-certain  scene  of  ac 
tion.  Their  plans  for  the  first  year  were  rather 
crude,  though  astonishingly  effective  at  the 
time.  It  was  they  who  invented  the  paper  bag 
of  water  dropped  from  the  fourth  floor  to 
burst  far  below,  and  waken  the  house  with 
the  most  ghastly  hollow  explosion;  it  was 
they  who  let  a  pair  of  scissors  down  two  flights 
to  tap  against  the  pane  of  an  unfortunate  en- 

[94] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

emy  in  the  senior  class,  and  send  her  into  con 
vulsions  of  nervous  and,  as  they  said,  guilty 
fear.  It  was  they  who  stuck  new  caramels  to 
their  door-knob,  and  oblivious  to  the  ma 
tron's  admonitions  of  the  hour,  waited  till  in 
exasperation  she  seized  the  knob,  when  they 
met  her  disgust  with  soap  and  apologies;  it  was 
they  who  left  the  gas  brightly  burning  and  the 
door  temptingly  ajar  at  i  o.  1 5,  so  that  the  long- 
suffering  woman  pounced  upon  them  with 
just  recrimination,  only  to  find  her  stored-up 
wrath  directed  against  two  night-gowned  fig 
ures  bowed  over  their  little  white  beds,  as  it 
were  two  Infant  Samuels.  It  is  doubtful  if  a 
devotional  exercise  ever  before  or  since  has 
roused  such  mingled  feelings  in  the  bosom  of 
the  chance  spectator. 

It  was  they  who  beyond  a  shadow  of  doubt 
won  the  basket-ball  game  for  the  freshmen — 
an  unprecedented  viclory — by  their  marvel 
lous  intuition  of  each  other's  intentions  and 
their  manner  of  being  everywhere  at  once  and 
playing  into  each  other's  hands  with  an  un 
canny  certainty.  This  gave  them  position  and 
weight  among  their  mates,  which  they  duly  ap 
preciated.  They  were  the  recognized  jesters  of 
the  class,  and  their  merry,  homely  faces  were 
sure  of  answering  grins  wherever  they  appeared. 

[95] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

When  they  returned  sophomore  year  more 
alike  than  ever,  with  happy  plans  for  the  best 
double  room  on  the  second  floor,  they  were 
met  by  quite  another  kind  of  grin:  its  owner, 
Mrs.  Harrow,  would  have  perhaps  described 
it  as  firm  and  pleasant — the  Twins  referred 
to  it  bitterly  as  hypocritical  and  disgusting. 

"No,  Martha,  no.  It's  no  use  to  coax  me 
—  I  can't  have  it.  I  cannot  go  through  an 
other  such  year.  If  you  wish  to  remain  in  the 
house,  you  must  separate.  You  can  have  No.  10 
with  Alberta  Bunting,  and  Kate  can  go  in  with 
Margaret — she  says  she  is  perfectly  willing, 
rather  than  give  up  the  room,  and  Helen  is 
not  coming  back  till  next  year.  Now,  I  don't 
want  to  have  to  argue  about  it;  I  think  you 
are  better  apart." 

No  one  ever  accused  Mrs.  Harrow  of  tact. 
Her  placid  firmness  was  almost  the  most  ex 
asperating  thing  about  her.  Her  decisions,  if 
apparently  somewhat  feather-beddish,  ranked, 
nevertheless,  with  those  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians,  and  the  Twins  walked  haughtily 
away — beaten  but  defiant. 

Of  course  it  never  occurred  to  them  to  leave 
the  house,  and  Kate,  after  a  time,  grew  quite 
contented,  for  Miss  Pattison  was  eminently 
pleasant  and  tadful,  kept  the  room  in  beauti- 

[96] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

ful  order,  and  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  the 
Dewey  with  her  sister,  an  instructor  in  the  col 
lege,  and  her  great  friend  Cornelia  Burt,  who 
was  off  the  campus.  This  left  the  room  to  the 
Twins,  who  were  almost  as  much  together  as 
of  yore.  But  Martha  was  in  quite  another  case. 
In  her  the  insult  of  a  dictated  separation 
rankled  continually,  and  her  hitherto  mild 
contempt  for  Mrs.  Harrow  deepened  into  a 
positively  appalling  enmity.  Circumstances 
unfortunately  assisted  her  feeling,  for  beyond 
a  doubt  Alberta  May  Bunting  was  not  adapted 
to  her  new  room-mate. 

She  was  a  wholesome,  kindly  creature,  with 
high  principles  and  no  particular  waist-line. 
She  drank  a  great  deal  of  milk,  and  was  a 
source  of  great  relief  to  her  teachers,  her  reci 
tations  being  practically  perfect.  From  her 
sophomore  year  she  had  been  wildly,  if  sol 
idly,  addicted  to  zoology,  and  to  her,  after 
hours  spent  in  the  successful  chase  of  the 
doomed  insect,  the  grasshopper  was  literally 
a  burden,  for  she  slew  him  by  the  basketful. 
She  rendered  the  surrounding  territory  frog- 
less  in  her  zeal  for  laboratory  practice,  and  in 
her  senior  year  it  was  rumored  that  stray  cats 
fled  at  her  approach:  "She'll  cut  me  up  in 
my  sleep,"  said  Martha,  gloomily,  "and  soak 

[97  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

me  in  formaline  in  the  bath-tub — the  idiot !" 
For,  although  the  "h'  Arrow-that-fly eth-by- 
day-and-the-terror-that-walketh-by-night,"as 
Martha  Williams,  in  a  burst  of  inspiration, 
had  named  her,  could  not,  of  course,  have 
known  it,  Sutton  M.,  as  she  was  most  com 
monly  called,  loathed  and  despised  bugs,  rep 
tiles,  and  crawling  and  dismembered  things 
generally,  more  than  aught  else  beside.  She 
regarded  an  interest  in  such  things  as  an  in 
dication  of  mild  insanity,  and  as  a  character 
istic  of  Alberta  May's  such  a  predilection  as 
sumed  the  proportions  of  a  malignant  in 
sult. 

"It's  bad  enough  to  have  her  drink  milk 
like  a  cow,  and  eat  graham  crackers  like  a — 
like  a  steam-engine"  she  confided  to  her  sym 
pathetic  sister,  "and  smell  like  a  whole  bio 
logical  laboratory,  and  glower  at  me,  and  bob 
ble  her  head  like  a  China  image  whenever  I 
open  my  mouth,  and  call  me  Mottha,  which 
I  despise,  and  say,  cWhy,  the  ideal  Why, 
Mottha,  the  idea  I  What  do  you  mean,  Mot 
tha  ?'  without  putting  little  bottles  of  Things 
all  around,  and  my  having  to  upset  them. 
My  gym  suit  made  me  sick  to  put  on  for  a 
week  because  I  upset  some  nasty  little  claws  all 
pickled  in  something  per  cent,  alcohol  on  the 

[98  ] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

sleeve,  and  I  kept  thinking  the  legs  were  walk 
ing  on  me — ugh  !  they  were  leggy  claws  !" 

The  h'  Arrow-that-flyeth-by-day  had  fondly 
hoped  that  Alberta  would  "do  Martha  Sut- 
ton  a  world  of  good,"  because  of  her  exem 
plary,  regular  habits  and  her  calm,  sensible 
nature,  but  this  consummation,  though  de 
voutly  to  be  wished,  was  fated  never  to  be 
witnessed.  Everyone  heard  the  wails  and  gibes 
of  Sutton  M.,  but  to  few  or  none  were  the 
woes  of  Alberta  May  made  known.  But  that 
she  must  have  had  them,  her  attitude  at  the 
time  of  the  crisis  conclusively  proved. 

The  Twins,  in  the  course  of  their  myste 
rious  loitering,  overheard  a  somewhat  senti 
mental  discussion  between  Evelyn  Lyon  and 
an  extremely  stiff  and  correct  young  man  from 
Amherst,  as  to  whether  chivalry  and  openly 
expressed  devotion  to  the  fair  were  not  dis 
appearing  from  the  earth.  "Men  like  shirt 
waists  and  golf-shoes,"  Evelyn  had  been  heard 
to  murmur,  with  a  glance  at  her  fluffy  chiffon 
and  bronze  slippers,  and  the  senior  had  pro 
tested  that  they  did  not,  and  that  emotion,  if 
controlled,  was  as  deep  as  in  the  balcony-sere 
nade  days.  "In  fact,"  said  he,  finally,  "  Esta- 
brook  and  I  will  serenade  you  Wednesday 
night." 

[99] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

"You  would  never  dare,"  said  Evelyn,  with 
a  glance  at  his  eye-glasses  and  collar,  which 
for  height  and  circumference  might  have  been 
a  cuff.  "You  'd  be  afraid  the  girls  would 
laugh."  The  senior  looked  nettled.  "Expect 
us  at  ten  on  Wednesday  next,"  said  he.  "It 
won't  necessarily  be  the  Glee  and  Banjo  Club, 
you  understand,  but  it  will  be  a  real,  old-fash 
ioned  serenade."  Then,  as  Evelyn  smiled  ma 
liciously,  he  added,  "Only  you  must  appear 
at  the  casement,  and  throw  flowers,  you  know 
— that 's  what  they  did."  Evelyn  frowned, but 
agreed.  "At  the  end  of  the  song,  I  will,"  she 
said,  with  visions  of  the  night-watchman  hast 
ing  to  the  scene. 

The  Twins  were  unaccountably  strolling 
about  as  the  senior  left  the  house,  and  won 
dered  with  great  distinctness  and  repetition 
why  on  earth  Evelyn  should  say  she  'd  be  in 
14  at  the  front  when  of  course  she'd  be  in 
the  East  corner  on  the  first  floor.  "She  has 
some  game  up,"  shrieked  Martha,  and  Kate 
called  back,  "Of  course  she  has — some  one 
will  be  awfully  left,  that 's  all !" 

The  senior  listened,  grinned,  muttered  that 
women  told  everything  they  knew,  and  went 
his  way.  On  next  Wednesday  night,  the  entire 
house  being  congregated  in  the  hall  near 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA" 

No.  14,  where  Evelyn,  not  to  be  found  want 
ing  in  case  they  should  get  through  a  verse,  was 
sorting  carnations,  a  husky  burst  of  song  en 
livened  the  East  corner,  a  mandolin  and  a 
guitar  having  raced  through  a  confused  prel 
ude  under  the  spur  of  a  youth  hopping  with 
nervousness  and  sputtering  as  he  punched 
the  mandolin-player:  "Hang  it  all,  Pete,  get 
along,  get  along !  He  '11  be  here  in  a  minute 
— whoop  it  up,  can't  you  ?" 

A  muffled  baritone  began,  standing  so  close 
to  the  window  with  a  light  in  it  that  its  owner 
could  have  touched  the  sill  with  his  shoulder: 

Last  night  the  nightingale  waked  me, 
Last  night  when  all  was — 

The  shade  went  up,  the  window  followed, 
and  the  eyes  of  the  musicians  beheld,  below 
an  audience  of  house-maids,  the  only  people 
at  present  on  that  side  of  the  house,  an  enor 
mous  woman,  with  gray  hair  in  curling-kids, 
and  a  blanket-wrapper  which  added  to  her 
size,  grasping  a  lamp  in  her  hand  and  regard 
ing  them  with  a  mingling  of  amazement,  irri 
tation,  and  authority  that  caused  their  blood 
to  curdle  and  their  voices  to  cease.  Pattering 
feet,  a  lantern  turned  on  them,  and  a  voice: 
"'Ere,  'ere,  what  you  doing?  H'all  h'off  the 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

campus  after  ten — get  along,  now!"  com 
pleted  their  confusion,  and  they  left,  with  an 
attempt  at  dignity  and  a  slowness  which  they 
had  occasion  to  curse;  for  as  they  passed  the 
front  of  the  house,  from  out  of  the  air  above 
their  heads,  apparently,  two  sweet  and  boyish 
voices,  a  first  and  second  soprano,  lifted  up 
to  the  fresh  October  sky  an  ancient  and  beau 
tiful  hymn: 

Sometimes  a  light  sur/>r/ses 
The  Christian  while  he  singsy 
It  is— 

A  window  banged  forcibly,  and  the  min 
strels  stood  upon  no  order  but  fled  to  their 
carriage  and  rattled  out  of  town. 

Evelyn  Lyon,  with  set  teeth  and  artistically 
loosened  hair,  rushed  down  the  hall  behind 
Martha  Sutton,  who  made  the  room  she  was 
aiming  for, slammed  the  door, realized  that  the 
key  was  lost,  and  dragged  the  first  piece  of  fur 
niture  that  came  to  hand  against  it.  This  was 
Alberta  May's  desk,  and  upon  it  were  the  col 
lected  results  of  her  vacation  work  at  Wood's 
Holl.  Six  jars  upset  under  the  impact  of  Eve 
lyn's  weight,  a  dozen  mounted  cross-sections 
jingled  in  the  dark,  a  pint  bottle  of  ink  soaked 
a  thick  and  beautifully  illustrated  note-book; 
and  as  the  Terror- that- walketh-by- night 

I02 


BISCUITS   EX    MACHINA 

headed  Evelyn  to  her  door  and  mounted  a 
flight  to  quell  the  rising  tumult,  Sutton  M., 
with  a  hysterical  sob,  for  she  was  tingling  with 
a  delicious  excitement,  huddled  the  desk  back 
into  the  corner,  hoped  hone  of  the  bugs  were 
around  the  floor,  and  dropped  into  bed,  won 
dering  how  ever  Alberta  May  could  sleep 
through  such  a  night. 

And  now — though  perhaps  you  may  have 
imagined  that  there  was  never  going  to  be  any 
story — now  we  are  coming  to  it,  and  though 
it  is  short,  all  the  characters  appear.  Alberta 
May,  with  an  ugly  brick-red  flush,  told  Sut 
ton  M.  that  she  need  never  speak  to  her  again, 
for  no  answer  would  be  forthcoming,  and  that 
she  must  have  her  things  out  of  the  room  be 
fore  night.  Martha  was  really  horribly  fright 
ened,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  copy  the 
note-book  and  hire  some  one  to  make  the 
slides  and  re-pickle  the  scattered  Things;  but 
Alberta  May  merely  shook  her  head,  replied 
that  she  accepted  apologies  but  could  not  speak 
again,  and  kept  her  word,  for  she  never  noticed 
Martha  from  then  till  the  lid  of  June. 

The  h'Arrow-that-flyeth-by-daygave  Mar 
tha  an  address  that  reduced  her  to  a  pulp,  and 
having  sent  the  Twins  off  to  cry  in  each  other's 
arms  till  dinner-time  and  got  the  doclor  for 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Evelyn,  who  had  sprained  her  ankle  in  the 
rush,  she  sat  down  to  a  cup  of  tea  and  coun 
cil. 

To  her  entered  Biscuits,  and  they  talked 
of  odds  and  ends  till  Mrs.  Harrow  had  grown 
a  little  calm.  The  girls  in  the  house  accused 
Biscuits  of  a  hypocritical  and  unnatural  inter 
est  in  the  h' Arrow:  Biscuits  denied  this,  alleg 
ing  that  she  was  merely  ordinarily  courteous 
and  saw  no  occasion  for  treating  her  like  a 
dog,  which  somewhat  strong  language  was 
addressed  with  intention  to  a  few  of  her  friends 
who  certainly  did  not  display  any  undue  con 
sideration  in  their  manner  to  the  lady  in  ques 
tion.  She  was  wont  to  add  calmly  that  she  saw 
no  sense  in  having  those  in  authority  hate  you 
when  a  little  politeness  would  so  easily  pre 
vent  it.  And  many  times  had  she  successfully 
interceded  for  the  offender  and  gained  seats 
for  guests  and  obtained  the  parlor  for  danc 
ing  purposes  on  nights  not  mentioned  in  the 
bond.  On  these  accounts  she  made  an  unusu 
ally  fine  house  president  in  her  senior  year,and 
though  as  a  sophomore  she  had  been  but  sus 
piciously  regarded  by  that  officer,  she  made 
as  firm  a  bond  as  is  perhaps  possible  between 
powers  so  hostile  as  those  with  which  she 
struggled. 

[   104  ] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

To-day  she  listened  sympathetically  as  Mrs. 
Harrow  held  forth,  concluding  with, — 

"Now,  Bertha,  something  must  be  done.  I 
hate  dreadfully  to  make  a  change,  so  early  in 
the  year,  too,  but  Alberta  is  decided,  and  says 
that  she  will  leave  the  house  to-morrow  unless 
Martha  leaves  to-night.  And  Alberta  is  per 
fectly  justified :  nobody  could  be  expected  to 
put  up  with  it.  I  don't  know  whom  to  put  her 
with:  she  certainly  can't  be  trusted  with  her 
friends,  and  I  can't  feel  that  I  have  any  right 
to  put  her  anywhere  else.  I  hate  to  have  to 
admit  that  I  can't  manage  them  —  Miss  Rob 
erts  insists  that  they  're  fine  girls  and  will  out 
grow  it  all,  and  I  have  great  respect  for  her 
opinion,  and  yet — think  of  that  disgraceful 
performance  last  night !  It  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  boarding-school !  I  was  so  dis 
gusted —  " 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  I  Ve  talked  to  them, 
Mrs.  Harrow,  and  told  them  just  how  the 
house  feels  about  it,  but  don't  you  think  that  it 
was  rather  boarding-schoolish  in  Evelyn  ?  She 
started  it  all,  you  know." 

"Oh,  well,  of  course.  Evelyn  shouldn't 
have — but  then  she  is  a  good,  quiet  girl,  and 
—  Oh,  not  that  I  would  excuse  her !  " 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Biscuits,  briskly.  This 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

was  good  management  on  her  part,  for  Evelyn 
had  one  friend  in  the  house  to  the  Twins'  ten, 
though  a  favorite  with  Mrs.  Harrow. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Harrow,  I  Ve  got  an  idea,  and 
truly,  I  think  it  would  work,"  she  added  per 
suasively.  When  she  had  unfolded  the  idea,  the 
lady-in-charge  could  hardly  believe  her  ears. 

"Why,  Bertha  Kitts,  you  must  be  crazy  ! 
Nothing  could  induce  me  to  think  of  it  for 
a  moment — nothing  !  It  would  be  the  worst 
possible  influence  !  " 

Biscuits  argued  gently.  Her  three  years  of 
consistent  good  sense  and  politeness  stood  in 
her  favor,  and  though  Mrs.  Harrow  had  no 
sense  of  humor  whatever,  she  was  enabled  to 
perceive  a  certain  poetic  justice  in  the  plan  set 
before  her. 

"You  know,  Mrs.  Harrow,"  she  concluded, 
"  that  at  bottom  they're  both  nice  girls !  They're 
awfully  irritating  at  times,  and  of  course  you 
feel  that  they  Ve  both  occasioned  a  great  deal 
of  trouble;  but  they  're  both  honorable,  and 
I  'm  sure  it  will  be  all  right:  truly,  I'd  be 
willing  to  take  the  responsibility  — if  I  can  get 
them  to  consent  to  it!" 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Harrow,  unwillingly, 
"  you  know  them  both  better  than  I  do,  Bertha, 
of  course,  and  it  certainly  could  n't  be  any 

[  1 06  ] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

worse  than  it  is!  But  at  the  first  outbreak  I 
shall  take  the  matter  into  my  own  hands,  and 
act  very  severely,  if  necessary !" 

Biscuits  went  directly  upstairs  and  sought 
out  Martha  Williams,  who  lounged  on  the 
couch  with  Loti  in  her  hand  and  a  bag  of 
chocolate  peppermints  in  her  lap.  Her  room 
mate,  observing  that  Biscuits  glanced  at  the 
clock  as  she  entered,  murmured  something 
about  getting  a  History  note-book  and  oblig 
ingly  disappeared. 

"That's  a  good  harmless  creature,"  ob 
served  Biscuits,  approvingly. 

"Yes,  she  's  in  very  good  training,"  the 
creature's  room-mate  returned.  "Have  a  pep 
permint?" 

"Pity  she  can't  room  with  Alberta  May," 
said  Biscuits,  lightly;  "she  'd give  her  no  trou 
ble!" 

"  Lord,  no ! "  Martha  agreed; "  she  would  n't 
trouble  a  fly!" 

Biscuits  wandered  about  the  room  and  ab 
sent-mindedly  picked  up  a  sheaf  of  papers. 

"Themes  back?"  she  inquired.  Martha 
nodded. 

"'Me  see  'em?"  Martha  shrugged  her 
shoulders  in  a  manner  to  be  envied  of  the 
Continent. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

Biscuits  opened  at  a  poem  that  caught  her 
eye,  and  read  it.  Martha's  eyes  were  apparently 
fixed  on  Madame  Chrysantheme,  but  they  wan 
dered  occasionally  to  .Biscuits'  face  as  she  read. 
The  poem  was  called, — 

THE    LIFTING    VEIL 
Do  you  love  me  now  ? 
Ah,  your  mouth  is  cold  ! 
Yet  you  taught  me  how  — 
Are  we  growing  old  ? 

Did  you  love  me  then  ? 
Ah,  your  eyes  are  wet ! 
If  the  memory's  sweet, 
Why  will  you  forget  ? 

Could  you  love  me  still  ? 
Hush  !  you  shall  not  say  ! 
Love  is  not  of  will  — 
Shall  I  go  away  ? 

Dare  you  love  me  now  ? 
Let  me  burn  my  ships ! 
I,  myself,  am  not  so  sure  — 
Am  I  worth  your  lips  ? 

«Um — ah — yes,"  said  Biscuits,  "sounds 
something  like  Browning,  doesn't  it?" 
Martha  looked  only  politely  interested. 
"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  she  said  impersonally. 
[  108  ] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

"Yes.  I  like  that  line  about  the  ships/' 
added  Biscuits,  tentatively;  "it — er — seems 
to — er — imply  so  much!" 

Martha  looked  enigmatically  at  the  skull. 
"Does  it?"  she  asked. 

Biscuits  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  long,  hastily 
written  story,  and  gasped. 

"Why,  Martha,  did  you  really  hand  that 
in?"  she  demanded. 

"  Certainly  I  did,"  said  Martha;  "why  not ? " 

"Because  it 's  really  shocking,  you  know," 
Biscuits  replied.  "What  did  she  say?" 

Martha  hesitated,  but  a  twinkle  slipped 
into  her  eye  and  she  smiled  as  she  replied. 
"Look  and  see,"  she  said. 

Biscuits  turned  to  the  last  page,  passing 
many  an  underlined  word  or  phrase  by  the 
way,  and  read  in  crimson  ink  at  the  bottom : 
Mallock  has  done  this  better:  you  are  getting 
very  careless  in  your  use  of  relatives.  At  which 
Biscuits  smiled  wisely  and  reassured  herself 
of  an  announcement  she  had  made  in  the  mid 
dle  of  her  junior  year  to  the  effect  that  even 
among  the  Faculty  one  ran  across  occasional 
evidences  of  real  intelligence. 

"Martha,"  she  said  abruptly,  "I  meant 
what  I  said  about  Mary  and  Alberta — they'd 
make  a  very  good  pair." 

[   I09  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

"And  Miss  Sutton  and  I  — "  returned 
Martha,  sardonically. 

"Precisely,"  said  Biscuits,  "Miss  Sutton 
and  you.  Oh,  I  know  nobody  has  the  slight 
est  right  to  ask  it  of  you  and  we  all  supposed 
you  would  n't,  but  at  the  same  time  I  thought 
I  'd  just  lay  it  before  you.  I  firmly  believe, 
Martha,  that  you  are  the  only  person  in  this 
house  capable  of  managing  Martha  Sutton!" 

"I  ?"  And  Madame  Chrysantheme  dropped 
to  the  floor. 

"Yes,  you.  Now,  Martha,  just  look  at  it: 
you  know  that  the  girl  is  a  perfect  child — you 
know  that  she  means  well  enough,  and  in  her 
way  she  has  a  keen  sense  of  humor.  Now  you 
are  much  more  mature  than  the  average  girl 
up  here  and  you  take — er — broader  views 
of  things  than  most  of  them.  You  would  n't 
be  so  shocked  at  the,  things  Suttie  does;  you 
could,  very  gradually,  you  know,  convey  to 
her  that  her  ideas  of  humor  were  just  a  little 
crude,  you  know,  and  that  would  strike  her 
far  more  than  the  lectures  that  Alberta  used 
to  read  her  by  the  hour." 

"Oh!  Alberta!"  Martha  gasped.  "Alberta 
was  enough  to  drive  anybody  to  drink!" 

"Just  so.  Well,  as  I  told  Mrs.  Harrow, 
you  were  the  one,  but  of  course  no  one  had 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

the  least  right  to  press  it.  And  of  course,  in 
your  last  year,  and  all  that,  and  naturally  you 
have  n't  any  special  interest  in  her,  and  it 's 
all  right  if  you  won't." 

Martha  scowled  for  a  moment  and  appeared 
to  be  reviewing  her  own  past  life,  rapidly  and 
impartially. 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  have  her  kept 
out  of  the  halls,  at  least,"  she  announced,  at 
last,  irrelevantly. 

"That's  what  I  told  Mrs.  Harrow,"  said 
Biscuits,  eagerly.  "You  see,  Alberta  bored  her 
so,  Martha.  She  's  a  clever  child  and  she  likes 
clever  people.  She  needs  tact,  and  Alberta 
has  n't  the  tad:  of  a  hen.  Only,  you  see,  Mrs. 
Harrow  felt  that  in  a  great  many  ways  the 
example — " 

Martha  rose  and  confronted  her  guest.  "  I 
hope  you  understand,  Biscuits,  that  if  I  ever 
did  go  into  the  kindergarten  business  I  should 
know  how  to  conduct  myself  properly.  I  have 
never  for  one  moment  tried  to  fit  everybody 
to  my  own  standards :  I  appreciate  perfectly 
that  things  are — er — relative,  and  that  what 
may  be  perfectly  safe  for  me  is  not  necessarily 
so  for  others." 

Biscuits  coughed  and  said  that  she  had  al 
ways  known  that,  and  it  was  for  just  that  rea- 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

son  that  she  had  hesitated  to  ask  Martha  to 
give  up  her  ways  and  habits :  habits  which  if 
harmless  to  the  unprejudiced  observer  were  a 
trifle  irregular,  viewed  from  the  strictest  stand 
point  of  a  college  house. 

"There's  no  particular  reason  why  you 
should,"  she  concluded,  "and  perhaps,  any 
how,  as  Mrs.  Harrow  says — " 

"Perhaps  what?"  snapped  Martha. 

"Oh,  nothing!  Only  she  doesn't  believe 
you  could  do  it,  and  of  course  she  perfectly 
loathes  having  to  make  a  change  this  way — 
she  says  it's  a  terrible  precedent — and — " 

"  See  here,  Biscuits,"  said  Martha,  solemnly, 
"  never  mind  about  my  habits.  I  suppose," 
magnificently,  "it  won't  hurt  me  to  get  to  bed 
at  ten,  once  in  a  way,  and  it 's  only  till  June, 
anyhow.  She  is  a  bright  enough  child,  and  as 
you  say,  she  needs  tact.  If  it  keeps  the  house 
quiet  and  saves  you  dinging  at  'em  all  the  time, 
I  can  do  it,  I  suppose.  I  might  try  studying  for 
a  change  before  mid-years,  too." 

Biscuits  got  up  to  go.  "I  appreciate  this 
very  much,  Martha,"  she  said  gravely.  "I 
know  what  it  means  to  you,  but  I  really 
think  you  '11  do  her  a  lot  of  good — I  mean," 
at  a  sudden  pucker  of  Martha's  brows,  "I 
mean,  of  course,  that  a  person  to  whom  her 

[  »*] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

badness  does  n't  seem  so  very  terrible  will  be 
a  revelation  to  her." 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Martha. 

Biscuits  waylaid  Sutton  M.  on  the  stairs 
after  dinner  and  suggested  a  conversation  in 
her  own  cosey  little  single  room.  Sutton  M. 
accompanied  her,  suspiciously. 

"Now,  what  do  you  think  you  're  going  to 
do  ?"  she  inquired  bitterly,  as  Biscuits  offered 
a  shiny  apple  and  tipped  Henry  Esmond  off 
the  Morris  chair.  "Going  to  put  me  with 
some  spook  or  other,  I  suppose — I  '11  leave 
the  house  first.  I  've  had  enough  of  that !" 

"No,  you  won't,  either,"  Biscuits  replied. 
"You  '11  be  as  good  as  Kate  is,  and  not  make 
me  curse  the  day  I  was  elecled  house  presi 
dent.  Now,Suttie,  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  some 
thing  that  must  not  go  beyond  this  room — 
beyond  this  room,"  she  repeated  impressively. 

"Not  Kate?  I  have  to  tell  Kate,"  said  Sut 
ton  M.,  but  with  an  air  of  deepest  interest. 
Outsiders  rarely  confided  in  the  Twins. 

"Well,  Kate  then,  but  nobody  else.  Prom 
ise?" 

Sutton  M.  nodded. 

"I  'm  going  to  do  what  might  be  greatly 
criticised,  Suttie,  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  that 
I  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Martha  Williams  if  you  would  quietly  go  in 
and  room  with  her  and  let  Mary  come  in  with 
Alberta.  Now,  I  Ve  done  no  beating  about  the 
bush  —  I  Ve  told  you  out  straight  and  plain. 
What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  I  say  it 's  a  fool  arrangement,  and  that  I 
won't  have  a  thing  to  do  with  it,"  said  Sutton 
M.,  promptly. 

"All  right,"  returned  Biscuits,  calmly, 
"that's  all.  Is  that  apple  green?  I  don't 
mind  it,  but  it  makes  some  people  sick." 

"You  know  perfectly  well  Martha's  the  last 
girl  in  the  world — we  'd  fight  night  and  day." 

"  I  know  she  's  one  of  the  brightest  girls  in 
the  college,  and  that  she  's  getting  low  in  her 
work,  and  it 's  a  shame,  too,"  said  Biscuits. 

"Would  I  make  her  higher?" 

Sutton  M.  tried  to  be  sarcastic,  but  she 
showed  in  her  manner  the  erFedt  of  the  con 
fidence. 

"Yes,'  you  would,"  said  Biscuits.  "Mary 
Winter 's  just  spoiling  her.  She 's  a  perfect  non 
entity,  and  she  studies  like  a  grammar-school 
girl — it  just  disgusts  Martha.  And  Mary  ad 
mires  her  so  that  Martha  just  rides  over  her 
and  gets  to  despise  good  regular  studying  be 
cause  Mary  does  it  so  childishly.  If  some  one 
could  be  with  her  who  was  bright  and  jolly 
[  "4] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

and  liked  fun  and  had  a  sense  of  humor  and 
did  good  work,  too,  for  you  two  do  study 
well — I  '11  give  you  that  credit — it  would  be 
the  making  of  her.  And  Mary  's  such  an  idiot. 
She  shows  that  Martha  shocks  her  so  much 
that  Martha  just  keeps  it  up  to  horrify  her — " 

"I  know,"  said  Sutton  M.,  wisely,  "like 
those  cigarettes  —  Martha  never  really  liked 
them." 

"Exactly,"  Biscuits  agreed,  though  with  an 
effort,  for  the  Twins  certainly  knew  far  too 
much.  "The  moment  I  told  Martha  that  it 
was  n't  in  the  least  a  question  of  morals  with 
us  but  entirely  a  matter  of  good  taste — that 
we  did  n't  think  she  was  wicked  at  all  but  that 
it  was  very  bad  for  the  house,  and  that  when 
we  were  all  represented  in  the  Police  Gazette 
as  trotting  over  the  campus  with  cigarettes  in 
our  mouths,  the  college  would  get  all  the  credit 
and  she  would  n't  get  any — why,  she  stopped 
right  away.  And  considering  how  it  irritated  her 
I  think  she  was  very  nice  and  sensible  about 
it." 

"But just  because  Kate  and  I  studied, Mar 
tha  would  n't,  would  she  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  she  would.  She'd  feel  that 
it  was  an  example  to  you  if  she  did  n't.  And 
she 's  so  bright.  It 's  a  shame  she  should  flunk 

[  "S] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

as  she  does.  She  knows  we  all  know  she  could 
get  any  marks  she  chose,  so  she  does  n't  care." 

Sutton  M.  looked  thoughtful.  "I  think 
her  stories  are  fine,"  she  remarked.  "And  I 
suppose  I  'd  have  to  go  with  some  spook,  if 
I  don't,"  she  added  gloomily. 

"Mrs.  Harrow  feels  bad  enough  about  the 
change,"  Biscuits  interposed,  "and  she  said 
she  'd  act  very  severely  next  time.  I  persuaded 
her  that  you'd — that  is,  I  didn't  persuade 
her,  I  'm  afraid.  Of  course,  she  feels  that  if  you 
should  by  any  chance  drag  Martha  into  your 
kiddish  nonsense,  why — she  does  n't  like 
Martha  any  too  well,  you  know,  and — " 

"Biscuits,"  interrupted  Sutton  M.,  hastily, 
"if  I  should  go  in  with  Martha,  and  I  must 
say  I  should  think  anybody  ' '  d  be  welcome  to 
her  after  that  stick  of  a  Mary  Winter,  I 
would  n't  drag  her  into  a  thing — truly,  I 
would  n't.  I  'd  be  careful !  Kate  says  that 
Patsy  says  she  's  lots  of  fun  and  awfully  jolly 
and  nice  when  you  know  her,"  she  added. 

Biscuits  assented  warmly.  "And  you  un 
derstand,  Suttie,"  she  continued,  "that  it's 
not  everybody  I  'd  speak  to  in  this  way  or 
that  Martha  would  have.  Martha's  rather  par 
ticular:  she  understands  that  Alberta  May  is 
a  little  trying,  good  and  kind  as  she  is.  But  I 
[  "6  ] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

realize  what  a  good  thing  it  would  be  for  Mar 
tha  to  be  with  somebody  who  would  n't  be  so 
shocked  whenever  she  said  anything  to  that 
skull." 

"Oh,  that  skull !"  said  Sutton  M.,  with  a 
wave  of  her  brown  hand.  She  looked  up  and 
caught  Biscuits'  eye  with  the  sharp,  uncom 
promisingly  literal  Sutton  twinkle. "Biscuits," 
she  demanded,  "did  anybody  ever  know  of 
anything  really  bad  that  Martha  ever  did — 
ever?" 

"Never,"  said  Biscuits,  promptly. 

Sutton  M.  chuckled:  "That 's  what  we  al 
ways  thought,"  she  said,  and  added:  "Well, 
I  '11  try  it,  and,"  very  solemnly, "you  can  trust 
me,  Biscuits  —  I  promise  you." 

When  Biscuits  went  back  to  Martha's  room 
she  missed  the  skull,  and  beheld  on  the  newly 
dusted  bookshelves  a  decorous  row  of  histori 
cal  works  and  an  assortment  of  German  clas 
sics.  This  gratified  her,  for  it  was  with  the  Ger 
man  department  that  Martha's  erratic  methods 
of  study  most  obviously  clashed.  Martha  was 
detaching  from  the  wall  a  pleasing  engraving 
representing  a  long  white  lady  with  her  head 
hanging  off  from  a  couch,  on  which  she  some 
what  obtrusively  reclined,  an  unwholesome  de 
mon  perching  upon  her  chest  and  a  ghastly 

[  117] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

white  horse  peeping  at  her  between  gloomy 
curtains.  This  cheerful  effect  was  entitled 
"The  Nightmare,"  and  as  it  left  the  wall, 
Martha  fell  upon  an  enlargement  in  colored 
chalk  of  one  of  Mr.  Beardsley's  most  vivid 
conceptions,  and  laid  them  away  together. 

"Why,  Martha!"  she  exclaimed,  "this  is 
really  too  much — there  's  no  reason  why  you 
should  take  your  things  down  !" 

Martha  smiled  tolerantly.  "Oh,  it  makes 
no  matter  to  me,"  she  said  indifferently.  "I 
know  the  Loti  by  heart,  anyhow,  and  though 
none  of  these  things  affecl:  me  in  the  slightest 
way — I  really  can't  see  anything  in  them  one 
way  or  the  other — still  I  frankly  refuse  to  take 
any  responsibility.  If  the  child  should  happen 
to  feel  that  the  skull,  for  instance — " 

Biscuits  grinned.  "It's  one  less  thing  to 
dust,  anyway,"  she  remarked,  and  left  Mar 
tha  to  her  work  of  reconstruction. 

She  wandered  in,  one  evening,  two  or  three 
weeks  later,  to  get  a  German  dictionary,  and 
beheld  with  a  pardonable  pride  the  Twins 
gabbling  their  irregular  verbs  in  whispers  by 
the  lamp,  while  Martha,  stretched  on  the  couch 
beneath  the  gas,  communed  with  Schiller  and 
the  dictionary.  The  Twins  gave  her  one  swift 
ineffable  glance,  kicked  each  other  under  the 

[   "8  ] 


BISCUITS   EX   MACHINA 

table,  and  bent  their  eyes  upon  their  gram 
mars:  Martha  nodded  to  her,  indicated  the 
Twins  with  one  of  her  three-volume  smiles, 
and  drawled  as  she  handed  her  the  dictionary, 
"In  the  words  of  Mr.  Dooley  and  the  Cu 
bans,  c  Pa-pa  has  lost  his  job,  and  all  is  now 
happiness  and  a  cottage-organ' !" 


THE   FIFTH   STORY 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 


V 
THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

i 

FROM   Miss  ELIZABETH  STOCKTON 
TO  Miss  CAROLYN  SAWYER 

Lowell^  Mass.,  Sept.  10,  189-. 

MY  DEAREST  CAROL  :  The  thing  we 
have  both  wished  so  much  has 
happened!  Papa  has  finally  con 
sented  to  let  me  go  to  college !  It 
has  taken  a  long  time  and  a  great  dealvi  persua 
sion,  and  Mamma  never  cared  anything  about  it, 
you  know,  herself.  But  I  laid  it  before  her  in  a 
way  that  I  really  am  ashamed  of!  I  never  thought 
I'd  do  anything  like  it !  But  I  had  to,  it  seemed 
to  me.  I  told  her  that  she  had  often  spoken  of 
what  a  mistake  Mrs.  Hall  made  in  letting  Mar 
jory  come  out  so  soon,  and  that  I  should  cer 
tainly  be  unwilling  to  stay  at  Mrs.  Meade's  an 
other  year.  I  'm  doing  advanced  work  now,  and 
I  'm  terribly  bored.  The  girls  all  seem  so  very 
young,  somehow !  And  I  said  that  I  could  n't 
come  out  till  I  was  twenty-two,  if  I  went  to 
college.  I  teased  so  that  she  gave  way,  but  we 
had  a  terrible  siege  with  Papa.  He  is  the  dear 
est  man  in  the  world,  but  just  a  little  tiny 
bit  prejudiced,  you  know.  He  wants  me  to 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

finish  at  Mrs.  Meade's  and  then  go  abroad  for 
a  year  or  two.  He  wants  me  to  do  something 
with  my  music.  But  I  told  him  of  the  fine  Mu 
sic  School  there  was  at  Smith,  and  how  much 
harder  I  should  work  there,  naturally.  He 
talked  a  good  deal  about  the  art  advantages 
and  travel  and  French — you  know  what  I 
think  about  the  terrible  narrowness  of  a  board 
ing-school  education  !  It  is  shameful,  that  an 
intellectual  girl  of  this  century  should  be  tied 
down  to  French  and  Music !  And  how  can  the 
scrappy  little  bit  of  gallery  sight-seeing  that 
I  should  do  possibly  equal  four  years  of  ear 
nest,  intelligent,  regular  college  work?  He 
said  something  about  marriage — oh,  dear  !  It 
is  horrible  that  one  should  have  to  think  of 
that !  I  told  him,  with  a  great  deal  of  dignity 
and  rather  coldly,  I  'm  afraid,  that  my  life 
would  be,  I  hoped,  something  more  than  the  mere 
evanescent  glitter  of  a  social  butterfly  !  I  think 
it  really  impressed  him.  He  said,  "Oh,  very 
well — very  well!"  So  I'm  coming,  dearest, 
and  you  must  write  me  all  about  what  books 
I  'd  better  get  and  just  what  I  'd  better  know 
of  the  college  customs.  I  'm  so  glad  you  're  on 
the  campus.  You  know  Uncle  Wendell  knows 
the  President  very  well  indeed — he  was  in 
college  with  him — and,  somehow  or  other, 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

I  Ve  got  a  room  in  the  Lawrence,  though 
we  did  n't  expect  it  so  soon  !  I  feel  inspired 
already  when  I  think  of  the  chapel  and  the  big 
Science  Building  and  that  beautiful  library! 
I  Ve  laid  out  a  course  of  work  that  Miss  Bev 
erly — that 's  the  literature  teacher — thinks 
very  ambitious,  but  I  am  afraid  she  does  n't 
realize  the  intention  of  a  college,  which  is  a 
little  different,  I  suppose,  from  a  boarding- 
school^]  I  have  planned  to  take  sixteen  hours 
for  the  four  years.  I  must  say  I  think  it 's 
rather  absurd  to  limit  a  girl  to  that  who  really 
\sperfettly  able  to  do  more.  Perhaps  you  could 
see  the  Register — if  that 's  what  it  is — and 
tell  him  I  could  just  as  well  take  eighteen,  and 
then  I  could  do  that  other  Literature.  I  must 
go  to  try  on  something — really,  it 's  very  hard 
to  convince  Mamma  that  Smith  is  n't  a  sum 
mer  resort !  Good-by,  dearest,  we  shall  have 
suchfoautiful  times  together — I  'msure  you'll 
be  as  excited  as  I  am.  We  shall  for  once  see 
as  much  of  each  other  as  we  want  to — I  wish 
I  could  study  with  you  !  I  'm  coming  up  on 
the  8. 20  Wednesday  morning. 

Devotedly  yours, 

ELIZABETH. 


C««5] 


SMITH    COLLEGE   STORIES 

ii 

FROM   Miss  CAROLYN  SAWYER 
TO  Miss  ELIZABETH  STOCKTON 

Lake  Forest,  III.,  Sept.  17,  189-. 
DEAR  BESS:  I'm  very  glad  you 're  com 
ing  up — it 's  the  only  place  in  the  world.  I  'm 
not  going  to  be  able  to  meet  you  —  I  'm  com 
ing  back  late  this  year — Mrs.  Harte  is  go 
ing  to  give  our  crowd  a  house-party  at  Lake- 
mere.  Is  n't  that  gay  ?  I  met  Arnold  Ritch  this 
summer.  Heknows  you,  he  said.  I  never  heard 
you  speak  of  him.  He  's  perfectly  smooth — his 
tennis  is  all  right, too.  For  heaven's  sake, don't 
try  to  take  sixteen  hours — on  the  campus, 
too  !  It  will  break  you  all  up.  You  '11  get  on 
the  Glee  Club,  probably — bring  up  your 
songs,  by  the  way — and  you  '11  want  to  be  on 
the  Team.  Have  you  got  that  blue  organdie  ? 
You  '11  want  something  about  like  that,  pretty 
soon.  If  you  can  help  it,  don't  get  one  of  those 
Bagdad  things  for  your  couch.  I  'm  deadly 
sick  of  mine.  Get  that  portiere  thing  you  used 
to  have  on  the  big  chair  at  home.  It 's  more 
individual.  We  're  getting  up  a  little  dance  for 
the  a6th.  If  you  know  any  man  you  could 
have  up,  you  can  come — it  will  be  a  good 
chance  to  meet  some  of  the  upper-class  girls. 

[  1*6] 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

We  may  not  be  able  to  have  it,  though.  Don't 
tell  Kate  Saunders  about  this,  please.  She  'd 
ask  Lockwood  over  from  Amherst,  and  I  Ve 
promised  Jessie  Holden  to  ask  him  for  her. 
We  shall  probably  have  Sue  for  class  presi 
dent  this  year — I  'm  glad  of  it,  too.  There 
will  be  a  decent  set  of  ushers.  I  suppose  you  '11 
want  me  for  your  senior  for  the  sophomore- 
senior  thing.  I  '11  keep  that  if  you  wish.  I  shall 
get  up  by  the  24th.  I  'm  in  the  Morris.  Don't 
forget  your  songs. 

Yours  in  haste, 

C.  P.  S. 

in 

FROM   MRS.   HENRY  STOCKTON 
TO  MRS.  JOHN  SAWYER 

Lowell,  Mass.,  Sept.  23,  189-. 
DEAR  ELLA:  In  spite  of  great  uncertainty 
on  my  part  and  aclual  unwillingness  on  her 
father's,  Lizzie  has  started  for  Smith.  It  seems 
a  large  undertaking,  for  four  years,  and  I  must 
say  I  would  rather  have  left  her  at  Mrs. 
Meade's.  But  her  heart  is  set  on  it,  and  it  is 
very  hard  to  deny  her.  She  argues  so,  too; 
really,  the  child  has  great  ability,  I  think. 
She  fairly  convinced  me.  It  has  always  seemed 
to  me  that  a  girl  with  good  social  surround- 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

ings,  a  good  home  library,  and  an  intellectual 
home  atmosphere  does  very  well  with  four 
years  at  so  good  a  school  as  Mrs.  M  cade's, 
and  a  little  travel  afterwards.  Lizzie  has  quite 
a  little  musical  talent,  too,  and  I  should  have 
liked  her  to  devote  more  attention  to  that. 
Very  frankly,  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  been 
able  to  see  any  improvement  in  Carrie  since 
she  went  away.  I  suppose  it  will  wear  off,  but 
when  I  saw  her  this  summer  she  had  a  manner 
that  I  did  not  like  so  well  as  her  very  pleas 
ant  air  three — no,  two — years  ago.  It  seemed 
a  curious  mixture  of  youth  and  decision,  that 
had,  however,  no  maturity  in  it.  Katharine 
Saunders,  too,  seems  to  me  so  utterly  irre 
sponsible  for  a  young  woman  of  twenty-one, 
and  yet  so  almost  arrogant.  I  expecled  she 
would  know  a  great  deal,  as  she  studied  Greek 
before  she  went,  but  she  told  me  that  she  al 
ways  skipped  the  Latin  and  Greek  quotations 
in  books  !  She  seems  to  be  studying  nothing 
but  French  and  Literature  and  History;  her 
father  could  perfectly  well  have  taught  her  all 
that,  and  was  anxious  to,  but  she  would  hear 
nothing  of  it.  She  wanted  the  college  life,  she 
said.  Ah,  well,  I  suppose  the  world  has  moved 
on  since  we  read  Livy  at  Miss  Hopkins' !  I 
picked  up  a  Virgil  of  Lizzie's  yesterday  and 

[ 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

was  astonished  to  find  how  it  all  came  back. 
We  felt  very  learned,  then,  but  now  it  is  noth 
ing. 

I  hope  Carrie  will  be  good  to  my  little  girl 
and  help  her  perhaps  with  her  lessons — not 
that  I  fear  Lizzie  will  need  very  much  help  ! 
Miss  Beverly  assures  me  that  she  has  never 
trained  a  finer  mind.  Her  essay  on  Jane  Austen 
was  highly  praised  by  Dr.  Strong,  the  rector 
of  St.  Mary's.  Of  course,dear  Ella,  you  won't 
resent  my  criticism  of  Carrie — I  should  never 
dream  of  it  with  any  one  but  an  old  and  valued 
friend,  and  I  shall  gladly  receive  the  same  from 
you.  But  Lizzie  has  always  been  all  that  I 
could  wish  her. 

Yours  with  love, 

SARAH  B.  STOCKTON. 

IV 

FROM   MR.  WILLIAM   B.  STOCKTON 
TO  Miss  ELIZABETH  STOCKTON 

Boston,  Mass.,  Off.  16,  189-. 
MY  DEAR  NIECE  :  Your  mother  advises  me 
of  your  having  just  entered  Smith  Academy. 
I  had  imagined  that  your  previous  schooling 
would  have  been  sufficient,  but  doubtless  your 
parents  know  best.  Your  mother  seems  a  lit 
tle  alarmed  as  to  your  success,  but  I  have  re- 


SMITH   COLLEGE    STORIES 

assured  her.  I  trust  the  Stockton  blood.  What 
ever  your  surroundings  may  be,  you  can  never, 
I  am  sure,  set  yourself  a  higher  model  than 
your  mother.  I  have  never  known  her  to  lack 
the  right  word  or  action  under  any  circum 
stances,  and  if  you  can  learn  that  in  your 
schooling,  your  friends  and  relatives  will  be 
more  than  satisfied. 

I  enclose  my  cheque  for  fifty  dollars  ($50), 
in  case  you  should  have  any  special  demand  on 
your  purse  not  met  by  your  regular  allowance. 
I  remember  many  such  in  my  own  schooldays. 
Wishing  you  success  in  your  new  life,  I  re 
main, 

Your  affectionate  uncle, 

WILLIAM   B.  STOCKTON. 


FROM   Miss  ELIZABETH   CRAIGIE 
TO    Miss    ELIZABETH    STOCKTON 

New  Haven,  Conn.^  Off.  21,  189-. 
MY  DEAR  ELIZABETH:  Sarah  tells  me  that 
you  are  going  to  college.  I  am  sure  I  don't  see 
why,  but  if  you  do,  I  suppose  that  is  enough. 
Children  are  not  what  they  used  to  be.  It 
seems  to  me  that  four  years  at  Mrs.  Meade's 
should  have  been  enough;  neither  your  Aunt 
Hannah  nor  I  ever  went  to  college,  though 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

to  be  sure  Hannah  wanted  to  go  to  Mt.  Hoi- 
yoke  Seminary  once.  I  have  never  heard  any 
one  intimate  that  either  of  us  was  not  suffi 
ciently  educated:  I  wonder  that  you  could  for 
one  instant  imagine  such  a  thing  !  Not  that  I 
have  any  reason  to  suppose  you  ever  did. 
However,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Your 
Aunt  Hannah  and  I  were  intending  to  give 
you  Mother's  high  shell-comb  and  her  garnet 
set  for  Christmas.  If  you  would  prefer  them 
now  for  any  reason,  you  may  have  them.  The 
comb  is  being  polished  and  looks  magnificent. 
An  absurd  thing  to  give  a  girl  of  your  age, 
from  my  point  of  view.  However,  your  Aunt 
Hannah  thinks  it  best.  I  trust  you  will  be  very 
careful  of  your  diet.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
your  complexion  was  not  what  it  should  have 
been  when  you  came  on  this  summer.  I  am 
convinced  that  it  is  nothing  but  the  miscella 
neous  eating  of  cake  and  other  sweets  and 
over-education.  There  has  been  a  young  girl 
here  from  some  college — I  think  it  is  Welles- 
ley — and  her  complexion  is  disgraceful.  Your 
Aunt  Hannah  and  I  never  set  up  for  beauties, 
but  we  had  complexions  of  milk  and  roses,  if 
I  do  say  it.  Hannah  thinks  that  the  garnets 
are  unsuitable  for  you,  but  that  is  absurd. 
Mother  was  no  older  than  you  when  she  wore 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

them,  and  looked  very  well,  too,  I  have  no 
doubt.  I  send  you  by  express  a  box  of  Katy's 
doughnuts,  the  kind  you  like,  very  rich,  and 
a  chocolate  cake.  Also  some  salad  and  a  loaf 
cake,  Mrs.  Harding's  rule.  I  trust  you  will 
take  sufficient  exercise,  and  don't  let  your 
hands  grow  rough  this  winter.  Nothing  shows 
a  lady  so  much  as  her  hands.  Would  you  like 
the  garnets  reset,  or  as  Mother  wore  them  ? 
They  are  quite  the  style  now,  I  understand. 
Hoping  you  will  do  well  in  your  studies  and 
keep  well,  I  am, 

Yours  lovingly, 

AUNT  LIZZIE. 

VI 

FROM   Miss  ELIZABETH  STOCKTON 
TO  MR.  ARNOLD  RITCH,  JR. 

Lawrence  House ',  Northampton,  Mass., 

Nov.  i,  189-. 

MY  DEAR  ARNOLD:  It  is  only  fair  to  you 
to  tell  you  that  it  can  never  be.  No,  never ! 
When  I — if  I  did  (which  I  can  hardly  be 
lieve) — allowed  you  to  think  anything  else, 
I  was  a  mere  child.  Life  looks  very  different 
to  me,  now.  It  is  quite  useless  to  ask  me — I 
must  say  that  I  am  surprised  that  you  have 
spoken  to  Papa.  Nor  do  I  feel  called  upon 
C  13*  ] 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

to  give  my  reasons.  I  shall  always  be  a  very, 
very  good  friend  to  you,  however,  and  very, 
very  much  interested  in  you. 

In  the  first  place,  I  am,  or  at  least  you  are, 
far  too  young.  The  American  woman  of  to 
day  is  younger  than  her  grandmother.  I  mean, 
of  course,  younger  than  her  grandmother  is 
now.  That  is,  than  she  was  then.  Also  I  doubt 
if  I  could  ever  love  you  as  you  think  you  do. 
Love  me,  I  mean.  I  am  not  a  man's  woman. 
I  much  prefer  women.  Really,  Arnold,  it  is 
very  strange  how  men  bore  me  now  that  I 
have  known  certain  women.  Women  are  so 
much  more  interesting,  so  much  more  fasci 
nating,  so  much  more  exciting!  This  will  prob 
ably  seem  strange  to  you,  but  the  modern 
woman  I  am  sure  is  rapidly  getting  not  to  need 
men  at  all !  I  have  never  seen  so  many  beau 
tiful  red-haired  girls  before.  One  sits  in  front 
of  me  in  chapel,  and  the  light  makes  an  aure 
ole  of  glory  about  her  head.  I  wrote  a  theme 
about  it  that  is  going  to  be  in  the  Monthly  for 
November. 

I  hope  that  you  won't  feel  that  our  dear 
old  friendship  of  so  many  years  is  in  any  way 
changed.  I  shall  never  forget  certain  things — 

I  am  enjoying  my  work  very  much,  though 
it  is  easier  than  I  had  thought  it  would  be,  and 

C  133  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

the  life  is  different  in  many  ways.  If  I  did  not 
think  that  Miss  Sawyer  had  probably  invited 
you,  I  should  be  very  glad  to  have  you  come 
up  for  the  Christmas  concert,  but  I  suppose  it 
is  useless  to  ask  you.  I  had  no  idea  you  were 
so  fond  of  tennis  ! 

Your  friend  always, 

ELIZABETH   WOLFE  STOCKTON. 

VII 

FROM   MR.   HENRY  STOCKTON 
TO  Miss  ELIZABETH  STOCKTON 

Lowell,  Mass.,  Nov.  I,  189-. 
MY  DEAR  ELIZABETH  :  Yours  received  and 
read  with  my  usual  attention  and  interest. 
I  am  glad  that  your  college  life  continues  to 
be  pleasant,  and  that  you  have  found  so  many 
friends.  I  was  much  interested,  too,  in  the  pho 
tograph  of  Miss  Hunter.  I  find  the  blue  prints 
are  more  common  than  I  had  supposed,  for  I 
had  imagined  that  they  were  something  quite 
new.  It  is  certainly  very  accommodating  in 
your  teachers  to  allow  themselves  to  be  so 
generally  photographed.  Your  mother  seemed 
much  pleased  with  Miss  Hunter, and  glad  that 
you  were  in  the  house  with  her  and  liked  her 
so  much.  I  was  surprised  to  see  her  so  young 
in  appearance.  I  had  very  foolishly  imagined 

[ 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

the  typical  old  style  "school-marm,"  I  sup 
pose.  But  it  seems  that  she  was  graduated  only 
a  few  years  ago,  herself. 

Now,  my  dear  Elizabeth,  I  am  going  to 
speak  to  you  very  seriously.  I  trust  that  you 
will  take  it  in  good  part  and  remember  that 
nothing  can  be  more  to  my  interest  than  the 
real  happiness  and  well-being  of  my  daughter. 
The  tone  of  your  letters  to  both  your  mother 
and  me  has  seemed  for  some  weeks  unsatis 
factory.  I  mean  that  we  have  found  in  them 
a  nervous,  strained  tone  that  troubles  me  ex 
ceedingly.  I  cannot  see  why  you  should  close 
with  such  expressions  as  this  (I  copy  verba 
tim):  "Too  tired  to  write  more ;"  "All  used 
Up — lots  of  Latin  to  do — can  only  find  time 
for  a  note  ;"  "Tired  to  death  because  I  'm  not 
sleeping  quite  as  well  as  usual,  just  now  ;"  et 
cetera,  et  cetera. 

I  have  been  to  see  Mrs.  Meade,  and  she 
assures  me  that  your  preparation  was  more 
than  adequate :  that  your  first  year  should 
prove  very  easy  for  you,  in  Latin  especially. 
Now  what  does  this  mean  ?  You  left  us  well 
and  strong,  considering  that  you  have  always 
been  a  delicate  girl.  It  was  for  that  reason,  as 
you  know,  that  I  particularly  opposed  your 
going  to  college. 

[  135  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

But  there  is  more.  Mrs.  Allen's  daughter, 
Harriet,  has  been  at  home  for  some  days  to 
attend  her  sister's  wedding.  Your  mother  and 
I  naturally  seized  the  opportunity  of  inquir 
ing  after  you,  and  after  some  questioning  from 
us  she  admitted  that  you  were  not  looking  very 
well.  She  said  that  you  seemed  tired  and  were 
"going  it  a  little  too  hard,  perhaps."  That 
seemed  to  me  a  remarkable  expression  to  ap 
ply  to  a  young  girl !  My  endeavors  to  find  out 
exactly  what  it  meant  resulted  in  nothing  more 
explicit  than  that  "  Bess  was  trying  to  do  too 
much." 

Now,  my  dear  girl,  while  we  are  naturally 
only  too  pleased  that  you  should  be  striving 
to  stand  well  in  your  classes,  do  not,  I  beg  of 
you,  imagine  for  one  moment  that  any  intel 
lectual  advancement  you  may  win  can  compen 
sate  us  or  you  for  the  loss  of  your  health.  You 
remember  Cousin  Will,  who  carried  ofFsix  hon 
ors  at  Harvard  and  came  home  a  nervous  in 
valid.  I  fear  that  the  Stockton  temperament 
cannot  stand  the  strain  of  too  continued  men 
tal  application. 

I  must  stop  now,  to  attend  to  some  busi 
ness  matters,  and  I  will  add  only  this.  Do  not 
fail  to  remember  my  definite  conditions,  which 
have  not  altered  since  September.  If  you  are 

[  136] 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

not  perfectly  well  at  the  Christmas  holidays, 
you  must  remain  with  us.  This  may  seem  se 
vere,  but  I  am  convinced,  your  mother  also, 
that  we  shall  be  acting  entirely  for  your  good. 

Yours  aff., 

FATHER. 

VIII 

FROM  MR.  ARNOLD  RITCH,  SR., 
TO  Miss   MARION  HUNTER 

New  York,  N.  r.,  Nov.  4,  189-. 

MY  DEAR  Miss  HUNTER:  You  may  re 
member  meeting,  five  years  ago,  in  Paris,  in  the 
Louvre,  an  old  American,  who  had  the  great 
pleasure  of  rendering  you  a  trifling  assistance 
in  a  somewhat  embarrassing  situation,  and  who 
had  the  further  pleasure  of  crossing  on  the 
Etruria  with  you  a  month  later.  I  was  that 
man,  and  I  remember  that  you  said  that  if 
ever  there  should  happen  to  be  an  occasion 
for  it,  you  would  be  only  too  happy  to  return 
your  imaginary  debt. 

If  you  really  meant  it,  the  occasion,  strangely 
enough,  has  come.  I  know  well  enough  from  my 
lifelong  friend,  Richard  Benton,  whose  family 
you  have  so  often  visited,  that  you  are  an  ex 
tremely  busy  young  woman,  and  I  will  state 
my  case  briefly.  I  never  make  half-confidences, 

[  137] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

and  I  rely  implicitly  on  your  discretion  in  the 
following  clear  statement.  My  only  nephew 
and  namesake,  incidentally  heir,  has  been  for 
some  time  practically  engaged  to  Miss  Eliza 
beth  Stockton,  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend. 
The  engagement  has  been  entirely  satisfactory 
to  all  parties  concerned,  and  was  actually  on 
the  eve  of  announcement,  when  the  young  lady 
abruptly  departed  for  Smith  College. 

My  nephew  is,  though  only  twenty-four, 
unusually  mature  and  thoroughly  settled  :  he 
was  deeply  in  love  with  the  young  lady  and 
assures  me  that  his  sentiments  were  returned. 
She  now  quietly  refuses  him,  and  greatly  to 
her  parents'  dissatisfaction  announces  that  she 
intends  remaining  the  four  years  and  "gradu 
ating  with  her  class,"  which  seems  a  strong 
point  with  her. 

Her  father  and  I  would  gladly  leave  the 
affair  to  work  itself  out  quietly,  were  it  not 
for  an  unfortunate  occurrence.  Ritch,  Jr.  has 
been  offered  an  extremely  good  opening  in  a 
Paris  banking-house,  which  he  must  accept,  if 
at  all,  immediately,  and  for  six  years.  He  is 
extremely  broken  up  over  the  whole  affair, 
and  says  that  unless  Elizabeth  returns  to  her 
old  relations  with  him,  he  will  go.  This  will 
be  in  three  weeks. 

[  138  ] 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was,  and  I  cannot 
leave  America  again.  I  can  only  say  that  if  the 
boy  goes,  my  interest  in  life  goes,  to  a  great 
extent,  with  him.  He  does  not  mean  to  be 
selfish,  but  young  people,  you  know,  are 
harder  than  they  think,  and  feel  deeply  and, 
for  the  moment,  irrevocably.  He  says  that  he 
is  certain  that  this  is  merely  a  fad  on  Miss 
Stockton's  part,  and  that  if  he  could  see  her 
for  two  weeks  he  would  prove  it.  I  should  like 
to  have  him  try. 

This  is  my  favor,  Miss  Hunter.  Elizabeth 
respecls  and  admires  you  more  than  any  of  her 
teachers.  She  quotes  you  frequently  and  seems 
influenced  by  you.  Arnold  has  made  me  prom 
ise  that  I  will  not  ask  her  parents  to  bring  her 
home  and  that  I  will  not  write  her.  I  will  not. 
But  can  you  do  anything?  It  is  rather  absurd 
to  ask  you  to  conspire  against  your  college, 
to  give  up  one  of  your  pupils:  but  you  have 
a  great  many,  and  remember  that  I  have  but 
one  nephew!  It  is  all  rather  a  comedy,  but  a 
sad  one  for  me,  if  there  is  no  change  within 
three  weeks,  I  assure  you.  They  are  only  two 
headstrong  children,  but  they  can  cause  more 
than  one  heartache  if  they  keep  up  their  ob 
stinacy.  Elizabeth  has  forbidden  Arnold  to 
come  to  Northampton  on  the  score  of  her 

[  139  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

work,  and  wild  horses  could  not  drag  him 
there. 

I  offer  no  suggestion,  I  ask  nothing  defi 
nitely,  I  merely  wonder  if  you  meant  what  you 
said  on  the  Etruria^  and  if  your  woman's  wit, 
that  must  have  managed  so  many  young  idi 
ots,  can  manage  these? 

Yours  faithfully, 

ARNOLD   M.  RITCH. 

IX 

FROM   Miss   MARION  HUNTER 
TO  MRS.  HENRY  STOCKTON 

Northampton,  Mass.,  Nov.  7,  189-. 
MY  DEAR  MRS.  STOCKTON:  As  you  have 
certainly  not  forgotten  that  I  assured  you  in 
the  early  fall  of  my  interest,  professionally  and 
personally,  in  your  daughter,  you  will  need  no 
further  explanation,  nor  be  at  all  alarmed, 
when  I  tell  you  that  Elizabeth  is  a  little  over 
worked  of  late.  In  the  house  with  her  as  I  am, 
I  see  that  she  is  trying  to  carry  a  little  too 
much  of  our  unfortunately  famous  "social 
life"  in  connection  with  her  studies,  where  she 
is  unwilling  to  lose  a  high  grade.  She  entered 
so  well  prepared  that  she  has  nothing  to  fear 
from  a  short  absence,  and  as  she  tells  me  that 
she  does  not  sleep  well  at  all  of  late,  she  will 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

have  no  difficulty  in  getting  an  honorable  fur 
lough.  Two  weeks  or  so  of  rest  and  freedom 
from  strain  will  set  her  up  perfectly,  I  have  no 
doubt, and  she  can  return  with  perfect  safety  to 
her  work,  which  is,  I  repeat,  quite  satisfactory. 
Yours  very  cordially, 

MARION  HUNTER. 

x 

FROM   MRS.   HENRY  STOCKTON 
TO  Miss  ELIZABETH  STOCKTON 

(^Telegram) 

Lowell,  Mass.,  Nov.  8. 

Come  home  immediately  will  arrange  with 
college  and  explain  myself. 

MOTHER. 

XI 

FROM   Miss   MARION  HUNTER 
TO    Miss    CONSTANCE  JACKSON 

Northampton,  Mass.,  Nov.  10,  189-. 
DEAR  CON:  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  impossi 
ble  for  me  to  accept  your  seductive  invitation 
for  Thanksgiving.  We  're  pulling  the  girls  up 
a  little  sharply  this  year,  and  it  would  hardly 
do  for  me  to  come  back  late.  But  it  would  be 
good  to  hear  a  little  music  once  more! 

It  was  rather  odd  that  you  should  have  men- 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

tioned  that  idiotic  affair  of  mine  in  Paris  — 
the  hero  of  it  has  just  written  me  a  long  letter 
apropos  of  his  nephew,  who  wants  to  marry 
that  little  Miss  Stockton,  whose  Harvard 
cousin  you  knew  so  well.  That  portly  squire 
of  dames  is  actually  simple  and  straightfor 
ward  enough  to  suggest  that  I  precipitate  the 
damsel  into  the  expectant  arms  of  his  nephew 
and  heir-apparent — he  is  used  to  getting  his 
own  way,  certainly,  and  he  writes  a  rather  at 
tractive  letter.  I  owe  him  much  (as  you  know) 
and  if  Elizabeth,  who  is  a  dear  little  thing  and 
far  too  nice  for  the  crowd  she  's  getting  in 
with — you  knew  Carol  Sawyer,  didn't  you? 
— has  such  a  weak-kneed  interest  in  college 
as  to  be  turned  out  of  the  way  by  a  sight  of 
the  destined  young  gentleman,  I  fancy  she 
would  not  have  remained  long  with  us  in  any 
case.  She  's  a  pretty  creature  and  had  cunning 
ways — I  shall  miss  her  in  the  house.  For  I 
don't  believe  she'll  come  back;  she's  not  at 
all  strong,  and  her  parents  are  much  worried 
about  her  health.  It  is  more  than  probable 
that  the  Home  will  prove  her  sphere. 

Personally,  I  don't  mind  stating  that  I 
would  it  were  mine.  When  I  consider  how  my 
days  are  spent 

You  might  not  believe  it,  but  they  grow 

[  14*  ] 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

stupider  and  stupider.  Perhaps  I  Ve  been  at 
it  a  bit  too  long,  but  I  never  saw  such  papers 
as  these  freshmen  give  one. 

And  they  have  begun  singing  four  hymns 
in  succession  on  Sunday  morning!  It's  very 
hard — why  they  should  select  Abide  with  Me 
and  Lead,  Kindly  Light  for  morning  exercises 
and  wail  them  both  through  to  the  bitter  end 
every  Sunday  in  the  year  is  one  of  the  local 
mysteries. 

I  must  get  at  my  papers,  they  cover  every 
thing.  Remember  me  to  Mr.  Jackson;  it  was 
very  kind  of  him  to  suggest  it,  but  I  must 
wait  till  Christmas  for  the  Opera,  I  'm  afraid. 
If  I  should  not  come  back  next  year — and  it 
is  more  than  possible  that  I  shan't — I  may 
be  in  Boston.  I  hope  in  that  case  you  won't 
have  gone  away. 

Yours  always, 

M.  I.  HUNTER. 

XII 

FROM   Miss  ELIZABETH  STOCKTON 
TO  Miss  CAROLYN  SAWYER 

Lowell,  Nov.  2O. 

CAROL  DEAR  :  I  am  writing  in  a  great  hurry, 
as  I  have  an  engagement  at  four,  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  decided  not  to  return  to-day,  as  I 

[  H3] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

intended.  Will  you  get  the  key  of  32  from 
Mrs.  Driscoll,  as  Kitty  goes  home  over  Sun 
day,  so  it  will  be  locked,  and  get  out  my  mink 
collarette  and  my  silver  toilet  things  and  my 
blanket  wrapper,  and  I  think  there  is  twenty 
dollars  in  my  handkerchief  case.  I  am  ex 
tremely  disturbed  and  confused — when  one 
is  really  responsible  for  anything  one  feels 
very  much  disturbed.  Of  course,  I  don't  be 
lieve  a  word  of  it — it 's  all  folly  and  nonsense 

—  but  still,  six  years  is  a  long  time.  Of  course, 
you  don't  know  at  all  what  I  mean,  dear,  and 
I  'm  not  sure  I  do  either.  I  forgot  to  say  that 
I  'm  probably  not  coming  back  to  college  this 
year.  Mamma  feels  very  worried  about  my 
health — you  know  I  didn't  sleep  very  well 
nights,  and  I  used  to  dream  about  Livy.  Any 
way,  she  and  Papa  are  going  abroad  early  in 
the  spring,  and  really,  Carol,  a  college  edu 
cation  is  n't  everything.  If  I  were  going  to 
teach,  you  know,  it  would  be  different,  but 
you  see  I  was  almost  finished  at  Mrs.  Meade's 

—  I  was  taking  advanced  work — and  it  is  n't 
as  if  I  had  had  only  the  college  preparation. 
Then,  if  we  go  abroad,  I  must  do  something 
with  my  French.  You  know  there  was  simply 
no  chance  to  practise  conversation  in  such  a 
large  class,  and  I  was  forgetting  it,  which  Ar- 

[   144  ] 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

nold  thinks  would  be  a  pity.  He  speaks  very 
fine  French  himself.  Then,  you  see,  there  '11 
be  all  the  galleries  and  everything  and  the 
Sistine  Madonna  and  the  cathedrals — they're 
so  educative — everybody  admits  that.  It's 
hardly  to  be  supposed  that  Geometry  and  Livy 
are  really  going  to  be  as  broadening  to  me  as 
a  year  of  travel  with  Papa  and  Mamma,  is  it  ? 
And  though  I  never  said  anything  to  you 
about  it,  I  really  have  felt  for  some  time  that 
there  was  something  a  little  narrow  about  the 
college.  They  seem  to  think  it  is  about  all 
there  is  of  life,  you  know,  with  the  funny  lit 
tle  dances  and  the  teas  and  all  that.  Even  that 
dear  Miss  Hunter  is  really  un  peu  gdtee  with 
it  all — she  thinks,  I  believe,  that  a  college 
education  is  all  there  is  for  anybody.  She  told 
Mamma  that  I  was  n't  well — she  wanted  me 
to  keep  my  high  grade.  Oh  !  Carol !  there  are 
better  things  than  grades !  Life  is  a  very  much 
bigger  thing  than  the  campus  even  !  I  think, 
dear,  that  one  really  ought  to  consider  very 
frankly  just  what  we  intend  to  do  with  our 
lives — if  we  are  going  to  marry,  we  ought  to 
try  to  make  ourselves  cultivated  and  broad- 
minded,  and  in  every  way  worthy  to  be — Oh, 
Carol,  dearest,  I  'm  terribly  happy  !  It  is  n't 
settled,  of  course:  I  am  utterly  amazed  that 

[  145  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

they  all  seem  to  think  it  is,  but  it  is  n't. 
Only  probably  if  I  still  feel  as  I  do  now, 
when  we  get  back,  I  shall  ask  you,  dear,  what 
we  promised  each  other — to  be  my  brides 
maid — the  first  one  !  I  'm  thinking  of  asking 
Sally  and  Grace  and  Eleanor — all  our  old  set 
at  Mrs.  Meade's,  you  know.  I  think  that 
pink,  with  a  deep  rose  for  hats  and  sashes, 
would  look  awfully  well  on  all  of  you,  don't 
you  !  It  seems  a  long  time  since  I  was  in 
Northampton:  the  girls  seem  very  young  and 
terribly  serious  over  queer  little  lessons — or 
else  trying  to  play  they  're  interested  in  each 
other.  Arnold  says  he  thinks  the  attitude  of 
so  many  women  is  bound  to  be  unhealthy, 
and  even  in  some  cases  a  little  morbid.  I  think 
he  is  quite  right,  don't  you  ?  After  all,  girls 
need  some  one  besides  themselves.  I  always 
thought  that  Mabel  Towne  was  very  bad  for 
Katharine.  Will  you  send,  too,  my  Shelley 
and  my  selections  from  Keats  ?  The  way  I 
neglected  my  reading — real  reading,  you 
know — oh  !  cetait  ajfreux !  I  'm  learning  the 
loveliest  song — Arnold  is  very  fond  of  it: 

Ninon,  Ninon,  que  fais-tu  de  la  vie? 

Uheure  senfult,  le  jour  succede  au  jour. 
Rose  ce  soir,  demain  fletrle — 

Comment  vis-tu,  tot  qui  n^ as  pas  a" amour? 

[  H6  ] 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  ELIZABETH 

I  'm  going  out  now  for  a  walk.  I  'm  sure 
you  '11  like  Arnold — I  think  you  said  you  met 
him.  He  does  n't  remember  you.  Remember 
me  to  all  the  juniors  I  met,  and  if  you  see 
Ethel  Henderson,  tell  her  I  '11  write  to  her 
when  I  get  time.  Excuse  this  pointed  pen — 
I  'm  learning  to  use  it.  Arnold  hates  a  stub. 

Yours  always, 

BETTY. 


THE   SIXTH   STORY 


A  FAMILY  AFFAIR 


i 


VI 

A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

HERE  are  Jacksons  and  Jacksons. 
As  everybody  knows,  many,  possi 
bly  most,  of  those  who  bear  that  title 
might  as  well  have  been  called  Jones 
or  Robinson ;  on  the  other  hand,  I  am  told  that 
certain  Massachusetts  families  of  that  name 
will,  on  solicitation,  admit  it  to  be  their  belief 
that  Eve  was  a  Cabot  and  Adam  a  Jackson. 
Without  asserting  that  she  was  personally  con 
vinced  of  this  great  fact,  it  is  necessary  to  state 
that  Susan  was  of  the  last-named  variety  of 
Jackson.  She  was  distinctly  democratic,  how 
ever,  and  rather  strong-willed,  and  for  both  of 
these  reasons  she  came  to  college.  It  did  not 
entirely  please  the  family :  neither  of  her  sis 
ters  had  gone,  and  her  brothers  in  particular 
were  against  it.  It  is  probable  that  she  would 
have  been  decoyed  from  her  plan  had  it  not 
been  that  her  cousin,  Constance  Quincy  Jack 
son,  had  been  for  a  year  one  of  the  young 
assistants  who  dash  like  meteors  through  the 
catalogue  and  disappear  mysteriously,  just  as 
astronomers  have  begun  to  place  them,  into 
the  obscurity  whence  they  came. 

Constance,  like  Susan,  had  been  persistent, 
and  was  studying  at  Oxford  before  the  family 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

had  quite  made  up  its  mind  how  to  regard  her; 
later,  she  frequented  other  and  American  in 
stitutions  of  learning  and  bore  off  formidable 
degrees  therefrom,  and  at  about  that  time  it 
was  decided  that  she  was  remarkably  brilliant, 
and  that  her  much  commended  thesis  on  the 
Essential  Somethingness  of  Something  or 
Other  was  quite  properly  to  be  ranked  with 
her  great-grandfather's  dissertation  on  the  Im 
mortality  of  the  Soul. 

She  would  do  very  well ;  she  could  be  relied 
on;  and  entrusted  to  her  and  further  armed 
with  letters  of  introduction  to  the  social  mag 
nates  of  the  vicinity — which,  I  regret  to  say, 
she  neglected  to  present  till  her  sophomore 
year — Susan  began  her  career.  Of  the  emi 
nent  success  of  this  career,  it  is  not  the  pur 
pose  of  this  story  to  treat.  Beginning  as  fresh 
man  vice-president,  she  immediately  identified 
herself  with  the  leading  set  of  her  class,  and 
in  her  sophomore  year  was  already  one  of 
the  prominent  students  in  the  college.  She 
was  one  of  Phi  Kappa's  earliest  acquisitions, 
and  belonged  to  three  or  four  lesser  societies, 
social  and  semi-educational;  she  had  been  on 
the  freshman  Team;  she  was  twice  a  mem 
ber  of  the  Council;  in  her  senior  year  she  was 
literary  editor  of  the  Monthly  and  class  presi- 

c  15*1 


A   FAMILY    AFFAIR 

dent,  besides  taking  a  prominent  part  in  Dra 
matics.  She  fulfilled  all  these  duties  most  ac 
ceptably,  taking  at  the  same  time  a  very  high 
rank  in  her  classes :  in  one  department,  indeed, 
her  work  was  pronounced  practically  perfect 
by  a  somewhat  exigent  professor.  And  in  ad 
dition,  she  was  well  born,  well  bred,  and  well 
dressed,  and  considered  by  her  most  enthu 
siastic  admirers  the  handsomest  girl  in  the 
college,  though  this  was  by  no  means  the 
universal  opinion. 

You  might  imagine  that  Miss  Jackson  was 
therefore  intolerably  conceited,  but  in  this  you 
would  err.  She  took  no  particular  credit  to 
herself  for  her  standard  of  work;  she  had  a 
keen  mind,  and  had  been  taught  to  concen 
trate  it,  and  her  grandfather,  her  father,  and 
two  uncles  had  successively  led  their  classes 
at  Harvard.  It  seemed  perfectly  natural  to  her 
to  be  told  that  she  was  the  one  young  woman 
on  whose  shoulders  a  golf  cape  looked  really 
dignified  and  graceful  —  had  not  her  grand 
mother  and  her  great-aunt  been  famed  for  their 
"camel's-hair-shawl  shoulders"?  A  somewhat 
commanding  manner  and  a  very  keen-sighted 
social  policy  had  given  her  a  prominence  that 
she  was  conscious  of  having  done  nothing  to 
discredit;  and  as  she  had  been  quite  accus- 

[  153  ] 


SMITH    COLLEGE   STORIES 

tomed  to  see  those  about  her  in  positions 
of  authority,  and  had  learned  to  lay  just  the 
proper  amount  of  emphasis  on  adverse  criti 
cism,  she  steered  her  way  with  a  signal  success 
on  the  perilous  sea  of  popularity.  Her  idea  of 
the  four  years  had  been  to  do  everything  there 
was  to  be  done  as  well  as  any  one  could  do  it, 
and  she  was  not  a  person  accustomed  to  con 
sider  failure. 

I  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  this  story 
the  two  classes  of  Jacksons.  Emphatically  of 
the  former  and  unimportant  variety  was  Elaine 
Susan  Jackson  of  Troy,  New  York.  Mr.  Jack 
son  kept  a  confectionery  shop  and  ice  cream 
parlor,  going  to  his  business  early  in  the  morn 
ing  and  returning  late  in  the  evening.  This  he 
did  because  he  was  a  quiet-loving  man,  and 
his  home  was  a  noisy  one.  Mrs.  Jackson  was 
a  managing,  dictatorial  woman,  with  an  un 
expected  sentimental  vein  which  she  nour 
ished  on  love-stories  and  exhausted  there. 
From  these  books  she  had  culled  the  names 
of  her  daughters — Elaine,  Veronica,  and  Doris; 
but  prudence  impelled  her  to  add  to  these  the 
names  of  her  husband's  three  sisters — a  tri 
umph  of  maternal  foresight  over  aesthetic  taste 
— and  they  stood  in  the  family  Bible,  Elaine 
Susan,  Veronica  Sarah,  and  Doris  Hannah. 

[  154] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

Mr.  Jackson  was  not  a  sentimentalist  him 
self,  and  read  nothing  but  the  paper,  sitting 
placidly  behind  the  peanut-brittle  and  choco 
late  mice,  and  relapsing  sometimes  into  ab 
solute  idleness  for  hours  together,  deep  in 
contemplation,  perhaps,  possibly  dozing — 
nobody  ever  knew.  At  such  times  he  regarded 
the  entrance  of  customers  as  an  unwelcome 
intrusion  and  was  accustomed  to  hurry  them, 
if  juvenile,  into  undue  precipitance  of  choice. 
From  this  even  quiet  he  emerged  seldom  but 
effectively :  when  Veronica  entertained  the  un 
attractive  young  men  she  called  "the  boys," 
later  than  eleven  o'clock,  when  Doris  went 
to  the  theatre  more  than  twice  a  week,  or  when 
they  had  purchased  garments  of  a  nature  more 
than  usually  unsuitable  and  pronounced.  Then 
Mr.  Jackson  spoke,  and  after  domestic  whirl 
winds  and  fires  the  still  voice  of  an  otherwise 
doubtful  head  of  the  family  became  the  voice 
of  authority. 

Elaine  gave  him  no  trouble  of  this  sort.  She 
did  not  care  for  young  men,  and  she  never 
went  to  the  theatre.  Her  clothes,  when  she 
had  any  choice  in  the  matter,  were  of  the  plain 
est,  and  she  had  never  teased  her  father  for 
candy  since  she  began  to  read,  which  was  at 
a  very  early  age.  /  Say  No,  or  the  Love-letter 

C  155] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Answered,  was  her  first  consciously  studied 
book,  and  between  ten  and  fifteen  she  de 
voured  more  novels  than  most  people  get 
into  a  lifetime.  Incidentally  she  read  poetry 
— she  got  books  of  it  for  prizes  at  school — 
and  one  afternoon  she  sandwiched  the  Golden 
'Treasury  between  two  detective  stories.  She 
did  not  care  for  her  mother's  friends,  gossip 
ing,  vulgar  women,  and  she  loathed  her  sis 
ters'.  She  had  a  sharp  tongue,  and  as  parental 
discipline  was  of  the  slightest,  she  criticised 
them  all  impartially  with  the  result  that  she 
was  cordially  disliked  by  everybody  she  knew 
—  a  feeling  she  returned  with  interest.  She 
found  two  or  three  ardent  friends  at  school 
and  was  very  happy  with  them  for  a  time,  but 
she  was  terribly  exacting,  and  demanded  an  al 
legiance  so  intense  and  unquestioning  that  one 
by  one  they  drifted  away  into  other  groups  and 
left  her. 

In  her  second  year  at  the  high  school  they 
read  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  and  she  discovered 
her  name  and  saw  in  one  shame-filled  second 
the  idiotic  bad  taste  of  it — Elaine  Susan !  She 
imagined  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat  behind  her 
father's  counter  and  became  so  abased  in 
her  own  mind  that  the  school  found  her  more 
haughty  and  disagreeable  than  ever.  From  that 

[  156  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

moment  she  signed  her  name  E.  Susan  Jack 
son  and  requested  to  be  called  Susan.  This 
met  the  approval  of  the  teachers,  and  as  the 
schoolgirls  did  not  hold  much  conversation 
with  her,  the  change  was  not  a  difficult  one. 
By  the  time  she  had  been  three  years  in  the 
high  school  she  was  considered  by  every  one 
the  most  brilliant  student  there,  and  the  prin 
cipal  suggested  college  to  her.  This  had  never 
occurred  to  her.  Though  they  had  never  lacked 
for  necessities,  Mr.  Jackson's  business  was 
not  conducted  in  a  manner  to  lead  to  marked 
financial  success,  and  though  he  said  little 
about  his  affairs,  it  was  evident  to  them  all 
that  matters  were  slowly  but  surely  running 
down  hill.  Doris  and  Veronica  were  eager  to 
leave  school  and  spend  a  term  at  the  Business 
College,  some  friends  of  theirs  having  done 
this  with  great  success  and  found  positions  as 
typewriters,  but  their  father  insisted  on  their 
staying  at  school  for  two  yearsatleast.lt  would 
be  time  enough  to  leave,  he  said,  when  they 
had  to.  It  was  significant  of  the  unconscious 
attitude  of  the  family  that  there  had  never 
been  any  question  of  the  oldest  daughter's 
leaving  school:  Elaine  had  always  been  real 
bright,  her  mother  said,  and  as  long  as  books 
was  all  she  took  any  interest  in,  she  might  as 

[  157  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

well  get  what  she  could — she  presumed  she'd 
teach. 

But  this  acquiescent  spirit  changed  immedi 
ately  when  she  learned  that  her  husband  had 
told  Elaine  he  would  send  her  to  college  for 
two  years  anyway,  and  as  much  longer  as  he 
could  afford.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Jackson  a 
ridiculous  and  unwarranted  expense,  particu 
larly  as  he  had  refused  to  allow  the  term  at 
the  Business  College  partly  on  the  financial 
score.  She  lectured,  argued,  scolded;  but  he 
was  firm. 

"I  told  her  she  should,  and  she  shall,"  he 
repeated  quietly.  "She  says  she  thinks  she 
can  help  along  after  a  while,  and  you  need  n't 
worry  about  her  paying  it  back — she  will,  all 
right,  if  she  can.  I  guess  she  's  the  best  of  the 
lot  of  us ;  she  's  worth  the  other  two  put  to 
gether.  You  let  Lainey  alone,  Hattie,  she  's 
all  right!" 

This  was  during  her  last  year  at  school, 
and  as  she  had  on  her  own  responsibility  taken 
the  classical  course  there,  finding  a  fascination 
in  the  idea  of  Greek,  she  accomplished  the 
preparation  very  easily. 

Her  mother,  bowing  to  the  inevitable,  be 
gan  to  plume  herself  on  her  daughter  "who 
was  fitting  herself  to  go  to  Smith's  College," 

[  158] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

and  rose  many  degrees  in  the  social  scale  be 
cause  of  her.  But  their  ideas  of  the  necessary 
preparations  differed  so  materially,  that  after 
prolonged  and  jarring  hostilities  marked  by 
much  temper  on  both  sides,  the  final  crash 
came,  and  after  a  battle  royal  Elaine  took  what 
money  was  forthcoming  and  conducted  her 
affairs  unchallenged  from  that  moment.  It  was 
a  relief  to  be  freed  from  the  wearisome  squab 
bles,  but  she  cried  herself  to  sleep  the  night 
before  she  left — she  did  not  perfectly  know 
why.  Later  she  told  herself  that  it  was  be 
cause  she  had  so  little  reason  to  cry  when  she 
left  home  for  the  first  time. 

She  went  to  the  train  alone,  because  the 
girls  were  at  school  and  her  father  at  his  busi 
ness.  She  said  good-by  to  her  mother  on  the 
porch,  with  the  constraint  that  had  grown  to 
characterize  her  attitude  towards  them  all,  but 
her  mother  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  spasm 
of  sentiment,  and  kissing  her  wildly,  bewailed 
the  necessity  that  drove  her  firstborn  from  her 
to  strangers.  Later  the  girl  found  it  sadly  char 
acteristic  of  her  life,  that  absurd  scene  on  the 
porch;  with  her  heart  hungry  and  miserable 
for  the  love  and  confidence  she  had  never 
known,  she  endured  agonies  of  shame  and 
irritation  at  the  demonstration  that  came  too 

[  159] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

late.  She  went  away,  outwardly  cold,  with 
tight-pressed  lips ;  her  mother  read  Cometh  up 
as  a  Flower,  and  wept  hysterically  that  Fate 
should  have  cursed  her  with  such  an  unfeel 
ing,  moody  child. 

It  is  hard  to  determine  just  what  incident 
convinced  Susan  —  for  she  dropped  the  initial 
on  her  registration — that  life  had  not  changed, 
for  her  because  she  was  to  live  it  in  Northamp 
ton,  and  that  she  must  be  alone  there,  as  she 
had  been  in  Troy.  Just  before  she  left  col 
lege  she  decided  that  she  had  known  it  im 
mediately:  that  from  the  moment  when  she 
plunged  into  the  chattering,  bustling  crowd  in 
the  Main  Hall,  where  everybody  knew  some 
body  and  most  people  knew  all  the  others,  a 
vague  prevision  of  her  four  years'  loneliness 
came  to  her:  a  pathetic  certainty  that  she  could 
not,  even  with  the  effort  she  was  too  proud 
to  make,  become  in  any  reality  a  part  of  that 
sparkling,  absorbed,  unconscious  current  of 
life  that  rushed  by  her. 

Sometimes  she  dated  her  disillusionment — 
for  she  had  had  her  dreams:  she  knew  them 
only  by  the  pathetic  disappointment  of  the  ob 
stinate  awakening — from  the  day  that  she  saw 
her  namesake  laughing  in  the  midst  of  a  jolly 
group  of  girls  to  whom  she  was  presenting 
[  160] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

her  father  and  her  aunt.  They  were  handsome, 
well-dressed  people  with  a  distinct  air,  and  they 
were  tolerantly  amused  at  Sue  in  her  new  en 
vironment  and  showed  it  in  a  kindly,  cour 
teous  way  that  was  much  appreciated.  As  Su 
san  passed  the  group  there  was  a  great  laugh, 
and  she  heard  Sue's  voice  above  the  rest. 

"Truly,  Papa,  I  thought  you'd  finished! 
You  know,  whenever  I  interrupted,  Papa 
used  to  make  me  sit  absolutely  still  for  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  afterward — it 's  not  so  long  ago 
he  stopped,  either !" 

Her  father  laughed,  and  patted  her  shoul 
der,  and  Susan  went  on  out  of  hearing.  It  was 
only  a  flash  ;  but  she  saw  the  gracious,  well- 
ordered  household,  the  handsome,  dignified 
people,  the  atmosphere  of  generations  of  good 
breeding  and  scholarship,  as  clearly  as  if  she 
had  visited  them,  and  her  heart  swelled  with 
angry  regret  and  a  sickening  certainty  that  all 
the  cleverness  in  the  world  could  not  make 
up  for  the  youth  she  had  been  cheated  out 
of.  She  thought  of  the  bickering,  squabbling 
family  table  in  Troy  and  tried  to  imagine  her 
father  teaching  Doris  and  Veronica  not  to  in 
terrupt:  her  cheeks  burned. 

In  class  Sue  was  often  near  her;  she  knew 
that  she  was  recognized  chiefly  by  the  fad  that 
C  161  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

she  was  Susan  Jackson,  too.  On  the  first  day, 
when  the  instructor  had  called  "  Miss  Jackson  " 
and  they  had  both  answered,  "Miss  Susan 
Jackson,"  when  they  still  replied  together,  and 
finally  "Miss  Susan  Revere  Jackson, "when  the 
matter  was*  cleared  up,  Sue  had  looked  at  her 
with  interest,  and  after  the  class  made  some 
little  joking  remark.  If  the  other  had  answered 
in  the  same  spirit,  nobody  knows  whether  this 
story  need  have  been  written.  But  Susan  had 
heard  Cornelia  Burt  ask:  "Is  she  related  at 
all,  Sue  ?"  and  heard  Sue's  answer,  "Oh,  dear, 
no  !  From  Troy,  I  believe." 

Now  Sue  meant  absolutely  nothing  but 
what  she  said,  but  her  namesake  read  into  the 
words  a  scorn  that  was  not  there — either  in 
intention  or  facl.  Her  heart  was  sore  with  a 
hot,  vague  jealousy:  this  girl,  no  longer  there 
than  she,  had  stepped  so  easily  into  a  place 
prepared,  apparently, for  her;  she  knew  every 
body,  went  everywhere;  admired  by  her  own 
class  and  made  much  of  by  the  upper-class 
girls,  she  was  already  well  known  in  the  col 
lege.  She  was  a  part  of  it  all — Susan  only 
watched  it.  And.  because  of  this  and  because 
she  admired  her  tremendously  and  envied  her 
with  all  the  force  of  a  passionate,  repressed 
nature,  the  poor  child  answered  her  little  re- 

[  162  j 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

mark  with  a  curtness  that  was  almost  insolent, 
and  the  manner  of  an  offended  duchess.  Sue 
flushed  a  little,  lifted  her  brows,  threw  a  swift 
glance  at  Cornelia,  and  walked  away  with  her. 
Susan  heard  them  laughing  in  the  hall,  and 
bit  her  lip. 

She  could  not  know  that  Sue  had  described 
her  in  a  letter  to  her  father  as  "  a  queer,  haughty 
thing,  but  terribly  clever.  Nobody  seems  to 
know  her — I  imagine  she  's  terribly  bored  up 
here.  I  said  some  footless  thing  or  other  to 
her  the  other  day,  and  she  turned  me  down, 
as  Betty  says.  Did  you  meet  Dr.  Twitchell? 
He  was  stopping  with  the  Winthrops.  .  .  ." 

Susan  used  to  wonder  afterwards  if  it  would 
all  have  been  different  had  she  been  on  the 
campus.  I  know  that  most  college  people  will 
say  that  it  would,  and  it  is  certain  that  cam 
pus  life  was  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for 
Martha  Williams:  nobody  knows  with  what 
self-conscious  egotism  she  might  have  been 
spoiled  if  her  friends  and  foes  had  not  con 
spired  to  laugh  it  out  of  her.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  those  who  have  watched  the  victims  of 
that  reasonless,  pitiless  boycotting  that  only 
women  can  accomplish  so  lightly  —  so  uncon 
sciously,  do  you  think?  —  know  the  ghastly 
loneliness  of  the  one  who,  in  the  very  centre 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

of  the  most  crowded  campus  house,  is  more 
solitary  than  the  veriest  island  castaway. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Susan  needed  a 
great  deal  of  discipline.  She  had  been  for  so 
many  years  superior  to  her  surroundings,  so 
long  not  only  the  cleverest  but  the  finest- 
grained,  most  aristocratic  of  all  those  she  saw 
about  her,  that  although  she  had  perfectly  ap 
preciated  the  fact  that  she  would  probably  no 
longer  be  in  that  relative  position,  she  had  not 
estimated  the  difficulty  of  the  necessary  ad 
justment,  and  it  is  only  fair  to  those  who  gave 
her  her  hardest  lessons  of  calm  neglect  to  state 
at  once  that  her  manner  was  a  trifle  irritating. 

To  begin  with,  she  had  made  herself  un 
pleasantly  conspicuous  at  the  time  of  their 
first  freshman  class-meeting  by  rising  after 
half  an  hour  of  unventilated  and  tumultuous 
altercation,  and  leaving  the  room.  Now  it  is 
not  the  custom  of  popular  freshmen  to  leave 
their  first  class-meeting  in  this  manner — not 
as  if  one  were  faint  or  demanded  at  recitation, 
but  as  merely  intolerably  bored  and  not  a  lit 
tle  contemptuous;  and  the  scrambling,  squab 
bling  class  regarded  her  accordingly.  Susan 
Revere  Jackson  was  bored,  too — unspeakably 
bored;  but  she  sat  indefatigably  in  her  chair 
in  the  front  row,  applauded  nominations,  dis- 

C  164] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

cussed  the  presumably  parliamentary  features 
of  the  occasion,  smiled  and  agreed,  differed  at 
proper  intervals,  and  left  the  room  vice-presi 
dent.  It  is  hard  to  know  just  how  much  en 
thusiasm  Sue  really  felt:  Susan,  to  whom  she 
soon  became  the  visible  expression  of  all  the 
triumph  and  ease  and  distilled  essence  of  the 
successful  college  girl,  used  to  wonder,  later, 
as  older  than  Susan  have  wondered,  how  much 
of  her  college  life  was  ingenuous  and  how  much 
a  perfectly  conscious  attitude.  For  long  before 
she  left,  Susan  realized  that  she  had  greatly 
misjudged  a  large  proportion  of  the  girls, 
whom  the  event  proved  more  practically  wise 
than  she,  and  that  they  who  fill  the  role  of 
"fine,  all  'round  girl"  with  the  greatest  suc 
cess  are  often  perfectly  competent  to  fill  others, 
widely  different. 

This  she  did  not  understand  at  first,  and 
as  a  result  of  her  ignorance  she  included  them 
all  in  her  general  condemnation:  she  found 
them  immature,  boisterous,  inclined  to  be  silly ; 
or  narrow-minded  and  dogmatic  when  they 
were  less  flippant.  She  was  somewhat  exacting, 
as  has  been  said  before,  and  the  solemn,  pon 
derous  attitude  of  the  occasional  girl  who  wal 
lows  before  the  abstract  Higher  Education, 
and  lectures  the  Faculty  gravely  on  their  fail- 

[  165] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

ure  to  conduct  her  to  its  most  eminent  peaks 
during  the  freshman  year,  appealed  as  strongly 
to  her  sense  of  humor  as  if  she  had  not  herself 
been  sadly  disappointed  in  the  somewhat  re 
stricted  curriculum  offered  her  at  that  period. 
This  was  through  no  fault  whatever  of  the 
college,  but  because  the  girl  had  absolutely  no 
practical  basis  of  expectation  and  knew  no  more 
of  the  thousand  implications  of  college  life  than 
she  did  of  normal  girlhood  with  its  loves  and 
disciplines  and  confidences,  its  tremendous  lit 
tle  social  experiences,  its  quaint  emotions,  and 
indispensable  hypocrisies.  Her  vague  concep 
tion  of  college  life  was  modelled  on  The  Prin 
cess:  she  imagined  graceful,  gracious  women, 
enamoured  of  a  musical,  poetic,  higher  knowl 
edge,  deliciously  rapt  at  the  wonderful  ora 
tory  of  some  priestess  of  a  cult  yet  unknown 
to  her:  a  woman  beautiful  and  passionate, 
who  should  understand  her  vaguest  dreams 
and  sympathize  with  her  strangest  sorrows  as 
no  one  she  had  yet  known  or  seen  could  do. 
She  found  a  crowd  of  jostling,  chattering 
schoolgirls,  unformed,  unpoised;  many  of 
them  vulgar,  many  stupid,  many  ill-bred; 
overflowing  a  damp,  cold  hall  that  smelled  of 
wet,  washed  floors;  reciting,  in  a  very  average 
fashion,  perfectly  concrete  and  ordinary  lessons 
[  166.] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

from  text-books  only  too  familiar,  to  business 
like,  middle-aged  women,  rather  plain  than 
otherwise,  with  a  practical  grasp  of  the  matter 
in  hand  and  a  marked  preference  for  regular 
attendance  on  the  part  of  freshmen. 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that  what  cut 
deepest  in  all  the  disillusionment  was  not  the 
loss  of  the  hope,  but  the  shamed  perception 
of  the  folly  of  it,  the  realization  of  the  depth 
of  practical  ignorance  it  implied,  the  perfectly 
conscious  pathos  of  a  life  so  empty  of  real  ex 
perience  of  the  world  as  to  make  such  na'ive 
visions  possible.  She  did  the  required  work 
and  kept  her  thoughts  about  it  to  herself,  but 
the  effect  of  what  she  secretly  felt  to  have  been 
a  provincial  and  ridiculous  mistake  showed  it 
self  in  her  manner ;  and  the  occasional  hauteur 
of  her  namesake,  who  had  inherited  a  very  ef 
fective  stare  of  her  own,  was  diffidence  itself 
compared  with  the  reserved  disdain  that  cov 
ered  her  own  smarting  sensitiveness. 

Girls  who  had  tumbled  about  with  their 
kind  from  babyhood,  who  had  found  at  home, 
at  church,  at  school  a  varied  if  simple  social 
training,  resented  her  formality  and  could  not 
see  that  pure  shyness  of  them,  pure  wonder 
at  their  rough-and-ready  ease  of  manner,  their 
amazing  power  of  adjustment,  their  quick  grasp 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

of  the  situation  and  each  other,  lay  at  the  root 
of  her  jealous  dignity. 

So  she  called  them  "  Miss,"  and  they  thought 
her  affected ;  she  waited  for  invitations  that 
she  should  have  taken  for  granted,  and  they 
thought  her  haughty  ;  she  made  no  advance 
in  a  place  where  only  the  very  favored  are 
sought  out  and  most  must  earn  even  the  hum 
blest  recognition  with  honest  toil  and  assidu 
ous  advertisement,  and  they  quietly  let  her 
alone.  She  was  not  on  the  campus,  and  as  the 
girls  in  the  small  boarding-house  with  her  were 
industrious  and  ordinary  to  the  last  degree  and 
became  very  early  impressed  with  her  realiza 
tion  of  this  fad,  she  saw  little  of  them,  and  her 
one  opportunity  of  getting  the  campus  gossip, 
which  is  the  college  gossip,  grew  smaller  and 
smaller.  She  took  solitary  walks,  thereby  con 
firming  the  impression  that  she  preferred  to  be 
alone — for  who  need  be  alone  among  a  thou 
sand  girls  unless  she  wishes  it  ? 

On  such  a  walk,  late  in  the  fall,  she  stood 
for  some  time  on  one  of  the  hills  that  rise 
above  the  town  proper,  looking  for  the  hun 
dredth  time  at  the  mountains,  outlined  that 
afternoon  against  the  dying  light  of  a  brassy, 
green  sky.  The  trees  were  bare  and  black  about 
her;  the  lights  in  the  comfortable  houses  were 
[  168  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

flushing  up  the  windows  with  a  happy  evening 
red ;  belated  children  were  hurrying  home;  and 
now  and  then  groups  of  girls,  fresh-cheeked 
from  their  quick  walk,  swung  by,  in  haste  for 
supper  and  their  evening  engagements.  Over 
her  heart,  hungry  and  misunderstood,  there 
poured  a  sudden  flood  of  passionate  longing 
for  one  hour  of  unconscious  happy  comrade 
ship  with  homes  and  girls  like  these ;  one 
hour  of  some  one  else's — anybody  else's — 
life  ;  one  taste  of  dependence  on  another  than 
herself.  It  fell  into  rhythm  and  fascinating 
phrases  while  she  gave  herself  up  to  the 
mood,  and  she  made  a  poem  of  it  that  night. 
In  two  days  she  was  famous,  for  High  Au 
thority  publicly  placed  the  poem  above  any 
thing  yet  done  in  the  college ;  it  was  seized 
by  the  Monthly,  and  copied  widely  in  the 
various  college  publications ;  to  the  editorial 
board  and  the  Faculty  who  did  not  have  other 
reason  for  knowing  her,  she  became  "the  girl 
who  wrote  At  Autumn  Dusk."  It  was  long  be 
fore  she  equalled  it,  though  almost  everything 
she  did  was  far  above  a  college  standard;  and 
one  or  two  people  will  always  think  it  her  best 
poem,  I  have  no  doubt,  in  spite  of  more  recent 
and  perhaps  more  striking  work. 

For  this  poem  was  only  the  beginning,  it  may 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

as  well  be  admitted  now,  of  Susan's  career  as  a 
genius.  This  degree  is  frequently  conferred,  no 
doubt,  when  unmerited ;  but  the  article  is  so 
susceptible  of  imitation,  the  recipe  for  produc 
ing  the  traditional  effect  so  comparatively  sim 
ple,  that  it  is  to  be  wondered  at,  on  the  whole, 
that  the  aspirants  for  the  title  should  be,  among 
so  many  clever  young  women,  so  relatively  few. 
To  a  frank  and  recently  awakened  interest  in 
Shelley,  Keats,  Rossetti,  and  Co.,  it  is  only 
necessary  to  add  a  vacant  abstraction,  a  for- 
getfulness  of  conventional  meal  hours — sup 
per,  for  choice — a  somewhat  occult  system  of 
reply  to  ordinary  remarks,  and  the  courage  of 
one's  convictions  in  the  matter  of  bursting  out 
with  the  irrelevant  results  of  previous  and  pro 
longed  meditation  irrespective  of  the  conver 
sation  of  the  moment.  Any  one  who  will  com 
bine  with  these  infallible  signs  of  the  fire  from 
heaven  as  much  carelessness  in  the  matter  of 
dress  as  her  previous  bringing  up  will  allow — 
though  this  is  naturally  a  variable  quantity — 
and  a  certain  unmistakable  looseness  of  coiffure 
— was  there  ever  a  genius  with  taut  hair? 
heaven  avert  it ! — may  be  reasonably  certain 
of  recognition.  It  is  understood,  of  course,  that 
with  the  qualifications  above  mentioned  a  taste 
for  verse  and  an  ear  for  rhythm,  in  conjunction 

C  170] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

with  the  frank  appreciation  of  the  poetical  firm 
also  above  mentioned,  have  produced  their  in 
evitable  result. 

The  character  of  the  output  naturally  has 
something  to  do  with  the  extent  of  the  repu 
tation,  and  although  Susan,  the  most  promis 
ing  candidate  for  the  degree  then  in  the  field, 
had  alarmingly  few  of  the  most  obvious  signs 
of  her  rank,  this  was  indulgently  passed  over, 
and  she  was  allowed  her  laurels. 

But  it  was  Sue  Jackson  on  whom  all  the 
first  congratulations  were  heaped :  roses  and 
violets,  that  blossom  at  the  slightest  excuse  in 
Northampton,  covered  the  hall  table  in  the 
Hubbard  House,  where  she  spent  her  first  two 
years  ;  affectionate  and  mock-reverential  notes 
crowded  the  bulletin  board  for  her;  a  spread 
was  actually  got  up  and  the  guests  invited  be 
fore  the  mistake  was  known.  To  do  her  justice 
she  would  have  promptly  despatched  the  notes 
and  flowers  to  her  defrauded  namesake,  but  the 
donors,  whom  she  consulted,  would  have  none 
of  it. 

"Why,  Sue !  Why,  the  idea !  Didn't  you 
write  it?  Oh,  girls,  what  a  joke  !  How  per 
fectly  funny  !  —  Send  'em  to  her?  Not  at  all. 
Why  on  earth  should  Neal  and  I  send  that 
girl  flowers  ?  For  that  matter,  she  cut  us  dead 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

day  before  yesterday,  on  Round  Hill,  did  n't 
she,  Pat  ?  And  she  's  in  our  Greek,  too.  We  '11 
have  the  stuff  to  eat,  anyhow.  You  're  a  nice 
old  thing,  Sue,  if  you  can't  write  cthis  extra 
ordinary  poem'!" 

Susan,  who  heard  next  to  nothing  of  col 
lege  news,  heard  about  this.  She  heard  how 
Sue  had  gayly  responded  to  toasts:  "The 
Poem  I  did  not  write,"  "My  Feelings  on 
failing  to  compose  my  Masterpiece" — this 
was  Neal  Hurt's,  and  she  was  very  clever  over 
it — and  others.  The  only  thing  she  did  not 
hear  about  was  Sue's  half-serious  response  to 
"My  gifted  God-child,"  suggested  by  an  up 
per-class  friend.  She  made  a  little  graceful  fun 
and  then  added  quite  earnestly,  "And  really, 
girls,  I  do  think  she  ought  to  be  here  !  After 
all,  the  Class,  you  know — Let's  take  down 
the  flowers  and  all  the  fudge — come  on  !  She 
can't  do  more  than  squelch  us  !" 

The  very  girls  who  had  scoffed  at  the  idea 
before  were  naturally  the  ones  to  take  it  up  im 
mediately,  and  they  were  hastily  gathering  the 
things  together,  when  the  bell  rang.  They 
could  not  hope  to  get  there  and  back  before 
ten,  and  most  of  them  were  already  deep  in 
the  matron's  black  list  for  reported  lights;  so 
they  gave  it  up,  and  put  the  flowers  in  the 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

tub,  where  a  sudden  frost  over  night  struck 
them  and  they  perished  miserably. 

To  Susan  it  was  the  bitterest  thing  of  all;  it 
took  the  sweetness  from  her  success;  it  dulled 
the  piquancy  of  her  sudden  position.  She  could 
not  possibly  know  how  little  it  meant  to  Sue; 
that  it  was  only  one  of  many  spreads,  and  by 
no  means  the  triumphal  feast  she  imagined; 
that  after  the  first  they  forgot  why  they  had 
planned  it,  almost.  To  her  it  was  her  chance 
at  life,  her  long-delayed  birthright,  and  Sue 
had  taken  it,  too,  along  with  everything  else. 
"She  might  have  left  me  that!" — it  was  her 
thought  for  more  than  one  unhappy  night. 

Before  she  went  home  in  June  she  had 
written  a  Chaucer  paper  that  became  vaguely 
confounded  in  the  matter  of  literary  rank  with 
the  works  of  its  famous  subject,  in  her  class 
mates'  simple  minds,  so  great  was  the  com 
mendation  of  Another  High  Authority  in 
regard  to  its  matter  and  style.  It  came  out 
in  the  May  Monthly,  in  which  were  some 
pretty  little  verses  of  Sue's.  They  were  para 
phrased  from  the  French  —  Sue  had  taken 
any  amount  of  French  before  she  came  up — 
and  Susan  spent  her  time  at  chapel  in  look 
ing  harder  than  ever  at  her  namesake  as  she 
laughed  and  chattered  and  took  her  part  in 

[  173  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

the  somewhat  crudely  conceived  jokes  that 
seem  to  amuse  girls  so  perennially.  Less  flex 
ible,  as  she  afterwards  considered,  less  hypo 
critical,  as  she  irritably  felt  then,  she  marvelled 
at  the  mental  make-up  of  a  girl  capable  of  ap 
preciating  the  force  and  pathos  of  De  Musset's 
best  work  and  expressing  it  so  accurately,  and 
able  at  the  same  time  to  find  content  in  such 
tiresome,  half-grown  nonsense. 

When  the  Monthly  came  out,  she  was  amazed 
to  receive  a  dozen  copies  with  a  hasty  note: 

DEAR  Miss  Jackson :  Here  are  the  copies  you 
wanted — never  mind  the  money.   There 
are  always  a  lot  left  over  since  we  enlarged  the 
edition.  If  you  want  more^  after  we  Jve  sent  out 
the  Alumna  list^  we  Y/  give  them  to  you. 

H.  STUART. 

It  was  only  one  of  the  many  notes  intended 
for  Sue  that  had  been  coming  to  her  since  the 
beginning.  But  none  of  the  invitations  to  din 
ner,  to  Alpha  and  Phi  Kappa,  to  walk,  to  ride, 
to  wheel,  to  eat  a  box  from  home,  had  the 
effect  of  this  one.  For  Sue  came  after  her 
Monthlies  and  in  a  ten  minutes'  conversation 
wrought  more  ruin  than  she  would  have  be 
lieved  possible. 

"  Did  you  get  all  mine  and  your  own,  too  ? " 

[  174] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

she  asked  laughingly.  "I  should  send  away 
a  hundred,  more  or  less,  if  /  did  Absolutely 
satisfactory '  Chaucer  papers!  I  should  be 
that  proud.  .  .  . 

"You  see,  Papa  has  to  have  the  Monthly ', 
if  there  's  anything  of  mine  in  it,  tout  de  suite 
— directly  —  now.  He  was  wild  with  rage  at 
me  because  he  learned  about  that  little  fool 
story  I  had  in,  once  before,  from  Cousin  Con, 
4  long  afterwards/  he  said — it  was  only  a 
week!  And  then,  other  people,  you  know.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  get  any  of  these  off,  before  I 
came?  Because  it's  all  right  if  you  did — I 
don't  need  a  dozen.  Is  n't  it  funny  I  don't 
get  any  of  your  things?  You  must  be  some 
what  cloyed  with  my  notes  and  stuff —  I  should 
think  you  'd  be  bored  to  death.  It 's  very  wear 
ing  on  me,  Miss  Jackson,  explaining  all  the 
time,  cNo,  I  'm  not  the  one!  I  assure  you  I 
didn't  write  it.'  You've  no  idea.  .  .  . 

"My  cousin  is  on  the  Harvard  Monthly 
board,  you  know — he  telegraphed  congratu 
lations  to  me.  He  was  that  set  up  over  it! 
It  was  really  very  funny.  .  .  . 

"I  'm  afraid  I  'm  keeping  you — were  you 
going  out?  Shall  I  tell  Helen  Stuart  to  send 
yours  down?  She  may  think  we  Ve  both  got 
all  we  want.  Do  you  know  what  Alpha  's  go- 

'  [  175  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

ing  to  be  to-night?  Somebody  said  it  was  go 
ing  to  be  Dr.  Winthrop  —  he  's  my  uncle, 
you  know,  and  I  thought  if  it  was  I  'd  go 
down  to  the  station.  .  .  ." 

She  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that  her 
thoughtless  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  somewhat 
embarrassed  chatter  was  one  succession  of 
little  galling  pinpricks  to  the  other.  Her  fa 
ther,  who  expected  his  daughter's  little  tri 
umphs  to  be  his  own,  as  a  matter  of  course; 
her  cousin  at  Harvard;  her  uncle  who  lectured 
to  the  Alpha;  her  notes  and  flowers — she 
must  know  that  there  was  the  best  of  reasons 
for  her  not  getting  her  namesake's ! — her  light 
implication  that  everybody  went  to  Alpha; 
her  very  expression :  "  No,  I  'm  not  the  one ! " 
seemed  to  the  girl's  angry  sensitiveness  a 
studied  insult.  Not  the  one  !  As  if  there  were 
any  one  else  !  She  did  not  know  how  unbear 
ably  formal  and  curt  she  seemed  to  the  other, 
nor  how  strongly  she  gave  the  impression  of 
wanting  to  be  let  alone. 

Sue  went  away  to  mail  her  Monthlies,  and 
Susan  locked  her  door  and  considered  at 
length  and  in  detail  the  humor  of  her  visit 
or's  light  remarks  as  applied  to  herself.  She 
fancied  At  Autumn  Dusk  zn&AStudy  of  Chaucer 
demanded  by  an  enraged  father,  and  smiled — 

[  176] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

a  very  unpleasant  and  ungirlish  smile.  More 
over,  it  is  possible  that  she  did  her  father  an 
injustice  here.  While  it  is  improbable  that  he 
would  have  persisted  in  lending  them  about 
among  his  friends,  to  his  wife's  open  amuse 
ment,  as  did  Mr.  Jackson  of  Boston,  and  not 
withstanding  the  fad:  that  he  would  doubtless 
have  failed  to  appreciate  them  fully,  he  might 
have  liked  to  see  them.  Later,  much  later,  Susan 
was  to  find  a  number  of  her  poems  and  stories 
clipped  with  care  from  the  magazines  and  pasted 
into  an  old  scrapbook,  with  the  glowing  notices 
of  her  first  really  well-known  work;  the  book 
hidden  under  a  pile  of  old  newspapers  in  her 
father's  closet.  She  cried  over  them  for  days 
—  he  was  dead  then — and  published  Blind 
Hearts  shortly  afterward.  None  of  her  class 
mates,  most  of  whom  gave  or  received  that 
exquisite  sonnet-cycle  for  Christmas  that  year, 
could  have  known  that  the  roots  of  it  struck 
back  to  her  freshman  year  at  college. 

After  a  stupid,  hot  vacation,  in  which  she 
lost  touch  more  than  ever  with  her  people, 
from  whom  she  was  to  draw  slowly  apart,  it 
seemed,  forever,  she  came  back  with  a  little, 
unowned  hope  for  other  things:  a  vague  idea 
that  she  could  start  fresh.  She  told  some 
body,  afterwards,  that  just  as  she  got  to  un- 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

derstand  girls  a  little  she  lost  all  connection 
with  them;  she  did  not  lose  connection  with 
them  just  then,  so  it  must  be  that  she  did  not 
then  understand  them. 

Indeed,  what  was,  perhaps,  her  greatest 
mistake  was  made  at  this  time,  and  colored  the 
year  for  her.  It  happened  in  this  way.  The 
Alpha  had  the  first  chance  at  the  sophomores 
that  year,  and  for  a  wonder,  the  sophomores 
were  not  only  clever  but  possessed  that  in 
tangible  quality,  "the  Alpha  spirit,"  in  a 
gratifying  degree.  The  ticket  for  the  first  draw 
ing  included  the  two  Jacksons,  Cornelia  Burt, 
Elizabeth  Twitchell,  and  to  fulfil  that  tradi 
tion  that  inevitably  elects  one  perfectly  un- 
explainable  girl,  Kate  Ackley,  a  young  person 
of  many  and  judiciously  selected  friends.  At 
the  very  night  of  the  election  it  was  suddenly 
rumored  that  Sue  Jackson  had  openly  de 
clared  her  intention  of  refusing  Alpha  in  favor 
of  the  rival  society,  on  the  ground  that  she 
liked  Phi  Kappa  better  and  had  more  friends 
there. 

Now  aside  from  the  fact  that  this  report 
was  utterly  baseless,  for  Sue  would  have  pre 
ferred  the  Alpha,  if  only  to  go  in  among  the 
first  five  of  all,  it  was  aside  from  the  point. 
As  some  irritated  seniors  afterwards  explained 

C  178  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

with  much  temper  and  reiteration  to  the  chid 
den  society.  Alpha  was  sufficiently  honor 
able  in  the  sight  of  the  college  to  endure  very 
calmly  rejection  at  the  hands  of  any  fresh 
man  whatsoever,  whether  or  not  they  had  any 
certainty  of  the  truth  of  the  rumor.  But  the 
girls  were  struck  with  the  solemn  necessity  of 
immediate  and  drastic  action,  and  with  a  grati 
fying  thrill  of  excitement  they  struck  off  Sue's 
name  and  put  in  Margaret  Pattison's,  the 
sixth  in  order,  whereat  Phi  Kappa  greatly  re 
joiced  and  promptly  elected  Sue  the  next 
week. 

Now  it  is  very  sad  that  the  only  person  who 
seriously  misunderstood  this  whole  affair  was 
Susan  Jackson  of  Troy.  Sue  very  quickly 
learned  the  whole  matter;  what  her  feelings 
may  have  been  is  not  certain.  Phi  Kappa 
made  a  jubilee  over  her,  and  she  became,  as 
is  well  known,  a  great  light  in  that  society. 
Miss  Pattison,  by  some  mysterious  free  ma 
sonry —  the  girls  who  are  "in  everything" 
seem  to  absorb  all  such  matters  through  their 
pores — soon  found  out  her  luck,  and  was 
frankly  grateful  for  it.  Alpha  retained  the 
courage  of  her  convictions  and  assumed  a  dis 
tinctly  here-I-stand-I-can-no-otherwise  atti 
tude.  Phi  Kappa  chuckled  privately  and 

[  179] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

looked  puzzled  in  public.  But  Susan  had  made 
a  great  mistake,  and  what  is  worse,  never 
knew  it.  A  little  gossiping  freshman  in  the 
boarding-house  she  had  moved  into,  who  had 
been  injudiciously  petted  by  the  seniors  and 
imagined  herself  in  everybody's  confidence, 
told  Miss  Jackson,  with  many  vows  of  se 
crecy,  that  there  had  never  been  such  a  time 
in  Alpha  in  the  history  of  the  college:  they 
had  meant  to  have  Sue- — oh,  of  course!  —  but 
there  had  been  a  terrible  mistake  at  the  bal 
loting  and  names  had  been  confused,  and 
though  etiquette  forbade  any  expression  of 
their  real  feeling,  they  were  nearly  wild  at  their 
clumsiness. 

It  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  Susan 
jumped  to  her  conclusion.  She  had  got  so 
many  things  intended  for  Sue — why  not  this? 
She  knew  that  cleverness  and  even  college 
fame  are  not  the  only  calls  to  a  society,  and 
she  had  no  real  friends  in  either  of  the  two 
organizations.  She  could  not  believe  that  the 
Alpha  would  purposely  omit  Sue:  if  they  had 
chosen  both,  it  would  have  been  different,  but 
as  it  was  .  .  . 

So  she  received  their  very  earnest  congratu 
lations  with  a  constraint  that  chilled  them. 
They  reasoned  that  she  was  perfectly  certain 

C   1 8°  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

of  the  election  and  took  no  pains  to  hide  it, 
and  though  they  could  not  blame  her  for  this, 
they  thought  her  more  conceited  than  ever, 
and  regarded  her  accordingly.  The  poor  child 
was  suffering  from  actual  humility,  however, 
not  conceit.  She  could  not  know  that  her 
mark  on  both  society  lists  was  the  highest 
ever  given;  that  Alpha  would  cheerfully  have 
sacrificed  any  two,  or  even  three,  of  the  others 
for  her;  that  much  as  they  regretted  Sue,  they 
wasted  less  sorrow  over  her  now  that  they  were 
sure  of  the  leading  girl  in  Ninety-red.  For  that 
was  what  they  called  her — the  girls  that  she 
thought  patronized  her.  They  took  her  after- 
successes  almost  as  a  matter  of  course.  "Oh, 
yes  !  she  was  far  and  away  the  most  brilliant 
girl  in  the  college  !"  they  said.  But  she  never 
heard  them. 

The  house  she  had  moved  into  with  an  un 
acknowledged  hope  of  getting  more  in  touch 
with  them  was  the  last  house  she  should  have 
chosen.  It  was  filled  from  cellar  to  roof  with 
freshmen,  and  not  only  are  they  notoriously 
clannish  under  such  conditions,  but  there  were 
at  least  eight  or  ten  of  them  from  the  same 
prominent  preparatory  school,  and  among 
them  was  their  class  president.  It  was  not 
possible  for  Susan  to  join  herself  to  this  little 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

circle  of  satellites,  and  they  controlled  the  en 
tire  house  in  a  very  short  time.  So  she  took 
to  visiting  the  head  of  the  house,  a  faded, 
placid  soul  with  a  nominal  authority  and  a 
gentleness  that  moved  even  her  worst  fresh 
men — and  a  bad  freshman  combines  the  bru 
tality  of  a  boy  with  the  finesse  of  a  woman  of 
the  world — to  a  little  shamed  consideration 
during  their  periodic  fits  of  social  reform.  Sit 
ting  by  her  fire  in  the  dusk,  with  the  smell  of 
hot  cooked  chocolate  drifting  in  from  the  hall, 
and  the  din  of  the  assembled  tribes  in  the 
president's  room  overhead,  Susan  passed  long, 
bored,  miserable  hours.  Half  listening  to  the 
older  woman's  talk,  half  sunk  in  her  thoughts, 
she  alternately  chafed  with  rage  at  the  idea  of 
her  college  life  drifting  out  in  solitary  walks 
and  tired  women's  confidences,  or  took  a  sad 
kind  of  comfort  in  one  fire  where  she  was 
always  welcome,  one  friend  that  loved  to  talk 
to  her. 

For  Mrs.  Hudson  grew  very  fond  of  her, 
and  something  in  the  girl's  own  baffled,  un 
satisfied  soul  must  have  helped  her  to  under 
stand  the  stress  and  pathos  of  the  tired  little 
woman's  life.  Few  of  the  girls  who  afterwards 
read  Barbara:  A  Study  in  Discipline ',  would 
have  believed  that  the  high-hearted,  wonderful 


A   FAMILY    AFFAIR 

heroine  was  based  on  Miss  Jackson's  study  of 
their  freshman  landlady.  But  most  of  Susan's 
knowledge  was  gained  from  such  unscheduled 
courses. 

In  her  junior  year  she  let  her  work  go,  to 
a  great  extent,  and  spent  much  time  in  the 
town  libraries,  reading  omnivorously.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  her  class  work  deteriorated  not 
a  little,  as  much  by  reason  of  dangerously  ex 
tended  cuts  as  anything  else.  But  it  all  failed 
to  interest  her,  somehow:  the  detailed  cam 
paigns,  the  actual  value  of  money,  the  soul 
less  translations,  the  necessarily  primary  char 
acter  of  the  beginnings  of  any  study  of  modern 
language.  She  felt  with  growing  irritation  that 
she  should  have  learned  genders  and  verbs 
earlier  in  life,  and  she  surprised  her  expectant 
teachers  with  poorer  and  poorer  recitations. 
Mademoiselle  had  no  means  of  knowing  that 
though  Miss  Jackson  stammered  through  the 
subjunctive  she  was  reading  dozens  of  novels 
and  plays  with  a  very  fair  ease;  Fraulein  could 
not  tell  from  her  imperfect  handling  of  the 
modal  auxiliaries  that  she  had  written  a  better 
paper  on  Faust  than  many  a  six  years'  student 
of  German,  and  already  knew  most  of  Heine 
by  heart. 

This  year  she  made  a  few  friends,  chiefly 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

in  Phi  Kappa,  for  some  reason  or  other,  which 
irritated  the  Alpha  girls  a  little.  To  do  her 
justice,  she  was  utterly  ignorant  of  this  re 
sult  of  her  connection  with  Bertha  Kitts  and 
Alida  Fosdick,  nor  would  it  have  resulted  in 
the  case  of  an  ordinary  girl.  But  Susan  was 
more  prominent  than  she  ever  realized,  and 
her  whole  connection  with  the  others  being 
official  and  logical  rather  than  social  and  actual, 
her  conduct  and  opinions  were  very  sharply 
criticised  from  a  rather  exacting  standpoint. 
Nor  was  this  wholly  unfair,  for  she  was  her 
self  an  unsparing  critic.  More  than  one  of  the 
Faculty  smarted  under  her  too  successful  epi 
grams  ;  various  aspirants  for  popularity  and 
power  in  the  Alpha  or  the  class  learned  to 
dread  her  comments  ;  her  few  friends  them 
selves  were  never  quite  sure  of  her  attitude 
toward  them.  But  she  was  not,  for  her  part, 
sure  of  them  :  it  is  hard  to  make  friends  in 
one's  junior  year.  And  though  she  saw  quite 
a  little  of  Biscuits  and  Dick  and  Neal  Burt 
— always  her  constant  admirer — she  never 
for  a  moment  lost  the  consciousness  that  she 
was  no  friend  of  their  friends,  that  she  had  no 
place  in  those  groups  long  since  formed  and 
shaken  into  place.  They  were  a  little  jealous  of 
her,  too,  and  resented  her  selection  of  this  girl 

C  184] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

and  that  from  among  them,  though  they  could 
not  but  admit  that  her  judgment  was  good. 

Her  sources  of  irritation  were  the  same  al 
ways.  Their  very  flexibility,  the  ease  with  which 
those  she  had  chosen  out  slipped  from  her  to 
their  other  friends  (they  laughed  with  her  at 
them,  even,  after  the  manner  of  girls — did  they 
laugh  with  them  at  her?),  filled  her  with  a 
hopeless  jealousy.  It  was  not  their  nice  clothes 
and  their  good  times  she  grudged  them,  though 
she  wanted  both :  it  was  their  connections,  their 
environments,  their '  very  disciplines.  When 
Biscuits  with  loud  lamentations  elecled  Phi 
losophy  at  the  decree  of  her  father ;  when 
Neal  took  up  two  courses  of  Economics  in 
order  to  help  her  mother  with  "some  footless 
syllabi  in  mother's  literary  club;"  when  Betty 
Twitchell  endured  the  gibes  of  her  friends  every 
rainy  day  because  "  Papa  won't  let  me  wear  a 
short  skirt ;  he  hates  a  woman  in  one — I  think 
it's  perfectly  horrid  of  him,  too !  Wait  till  I  get 
pneumonia  !  As  if  I  'd  cget  a  carriage'  to  take 
me  from  the  Hatfield  to  College  Hall !"  Susan 
would  have  given  every  rhyme  in  her  head  for 
one  year  of  their  conventional,  irresponsible 
lives. 

It  was  not  money  she  longed  for :  Neal 
Burt  was  poor  enough,  and  made  no  secret 

[  185] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

of  "my  cousin's  boots,  my  dear,  and  my  aunt's 
silk  waist,  and  Patsy's  gloves  that  don't  fit  her, 
that  I  have  on  this  minute  !"  But  Neal  gave 
her  one  of  her  worst  quarter-hours,  at  the  time 
her  mother  came  up.  She  was  a  pretty  little 
woman  with  Neal's  eyes ;  her  simple  clothes 
had,  like  Neal's,  a  distinct  air  of  taste  and  se- 
leftion  about  them  ;  her  interest  in  everything 
was  so  pleasant,  her  manner  so  cordial  and 
charming,  that  she  made  an  easy  conquest  of 
the  girls  and  Neal's  friends  in  the  Faculty 
that  came  to  meet  her  and  drink  tea  in  the 
quiet  house  where  Neal  lived  almost  alone, 
much  petted  by  her  landlady,  an  old  family 
friend.  Mrs.  Burt  was  interested  in  Economics 
that  year — "the  dear  thing  has  a  new  fad 
every  time  I  go  home!" — and  a  prominent 
professor  of  Economics  from  one  of  the  uni 
versities  happening  to  be  in  town  just  then, 
one  of  Neal's  friends  among  the  Powers  in 
vited  mother  and  daughter  to  meet  him.  Mrs. 
Burt  was  equally  charmed  and  charming ;  the 
distinguished  professor  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  send  her  a  copy  of  his  book,  in  which  she 
had  been  much  interested,  "and she  went  home 
proud  as  Punch ! "  in  the  words  of  her  daughter. 
Every  word  the  kindly  little  woman  had 
with  Susan  —  and  she  had  a  great  many,  for 
[  186] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

Neal  had  interested  her  mother  in  her  friend — 
brought  closer  home  to  her  what  had  steadily 
grown  to  be  the  consuming  trouble  of  her  life. 
She  tried  to  imagine  her  mother  drinking  tea 
with  a  roomful  of  strangers  ;  finding  the  right 
word  for  every  one,  talking  with  this  girl  about 
her  friends,  with  that  about  the  last  book,  with 
the  other  about  college  life  in  general.  She 
fancied  her  meeting  the  distinguished  profes 
sor  and  discussing  his  book  so  brightly — and 
saw  the  closet-shelves  where  Marie  Corelli  and 
the  Duchess  jostled  Edna  Lyall :  Mrs.  Jack 
son  said  she  liked  some  real  heavy  reading 
now  and  then,  and  Edna  Lyall  had  a  good 
many  problems  in  her  books.  She  had  a  sick 
ening  consciousness  that  her  mother  would  in 
evitably  defer  to  the  girls,  particularly  to  the 
confident,  well-dressed  ones ;  and  every  time 
that  Neal  patted  Mrs.  Hurt's  shoulder  or 
kissed  the  tip  of  her  ear,  she  felt  her  heart 
contract  with  a  spasm  of  that  terrible  gnawing 
envy  that  is  surely  reserved,  with  their  equally 
terrible  capacity  for  loving,  for  a  certain  small 
proportion  of  women,  and  women  only.  It  is 
a  very  sad  thing  for  a  girl  to  be  ashamed  of 
her  mother. 

In  her  junior  year  occurred  one  of  her  great 
est  triumphs.  The  senior  class  had  petitioned 

[  187] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

vainly  for  the  privilege  of  giving  Twelfth 
Night  as  their  Commencement  play:  the  re 
fusal,  based  on  the  obstacle  presented  by  the 
part  of  Sir  Toby,  and  couched  in  the  undy 
ing  phrases  of  the  Greatest  Authority — "he 
should  be  neither  drunk,  nor  half  drunk,  nor 
bibulous,  nor  rioting  " —  impressed  very  deeply 
those  more  susceptible  to  the  humorous.  With 
a  commendable  intelligence  the  dramatics  com 
mittee  decided  that  under  the  limitations  above 
quoted  the  play  would  lack  in  verisimilitude, 
and  cast  about  for  another,  but  that  was  not 
the  end  of  it;  for  Susan,  in  whose  hands  the 
Alpha  farewell-meeting  had  been  unreservedly 
placed,  wrote,  staged,  and  directed  the  per 
formance  of  an  elaborate  parody  entitled  First 
Night,  from  which  "the  objectionable  element 
in  the  unfortunate  William's  comedy,"  to  quote 
the  preface,  was  successfully  and  unsparingly 
expurgated. 

Not  only  were  the  most  obvious  situations 
cleverly  treated;  not  only  did  Sir  Toby,  spare 
and  ascetic,  in  a  neat  flannel  wrapper,  call  deco 
rously  for  "a  stoup  of  thin  gruel,  Maria!" 
not  only  did  he  and  his  self-contained  friends 
walk  through  a  kind  of  posture  dance  with 
killing  solemnity,  chanting  the  while  a  staid 
canon  in  which  the  possibilities  of  "Why, 
[  '88  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

should  I  drink  on  one  day  ?  "  were  interpreted 
with  a  novel  and  gratifying  morality;  not  only 
did  Malvolio  utterly  eschew  an  article  of  ap 
parel  too  likely  to  bring  the  blush  of  shame 
to  the  cheek  of  the  Young  Person,  but  pains 
takingly  assume,  in  the  eyes  of  the  delighted 
audience,  heavy  woollen  stockings,  a  constant 
and  effectual  reminder  of  his  hidden  tradi 
tional  garb :  but  a  parody  within  a  parody  ran 
cunningly  through  the  piece.  The  trials  of  the 
committee,  the  squabbles  of  the  principal  aft 
ers,  open  hits  at  the  Faculty,  sly  comments 
on  the  senior  class,  which  had  been  active  in 
reforms  and  not  wholly  popular  innovations 
—  all  these  were  interwoven  with  the  farce; 
and  this  not  in  the  clumsy  harmless  fashion 
of  most  college  grinds,  but  pointed  by  a  keen 
wit,  a  merciless  satire,  an  easy,  brilliant  style 
already  well  on  to  its  now  recognized  maturity. 
Most  of  the  principal  actors  in  the  play  fi 
nally  selected  by  the  seniors,  with  more  than 
half  of  the  committee,  were  that  year,  as  it  hap 
pened,  from  Alpha,  and  their  delight  knew  no 
bounds.  Susan  did  not  act  herself,  but  she  was 
a  born  manager;  and  the  actors  that  cursed 
her  unsparing  drill  and  absolute  authority  dur 
ing  the  long  rehearsal  season  that  made  it 
the  most  finished  affair  of  its  kind,  blessed  her 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

vociferously  on  the  great  night  of  its  produc 
tion.  It  was  the  most  perfect  success  of  her  life 
—  though  the  girls  who  thought  she  scorned 
her  college  triumphs  would  have  laughed  had 
she  told  them  so,  later.  Every  point  was  eagerly 
caught  and  wildly  applauded;  the  stage  setting, 
the  funny,  clever  costumes,  the  irresistible  cari 
catures,  the  wit  and  humor  of  the  thing,  all 
acted  with  a  verve  and  precision  unusual  in 
college  dramatics,  where  criticism  is  too  often 
forced  to  take  the  will  for  the  deed,  all  called 
for  a  tremendous  and  well-earned  apprecia 
tion.  The  author  was  frantically  summoned 
again  and  again;  the  seniors  exhausted  a  con 
gratulatory  vocabulary  on  her.  Her  classmates 
shook  her  hand  many  times  apiece. 

Nor  did  the  triumph  end  with  the  night, 
for  the  juniors,  unable  to  contain  their  pride, 
gave  surreptitious  bits  of  the  play  to  chosen 
seniors  in  Phi  Kappa,  and  it  was  even  ru 
mored  that  the  other  society  was  going  to 
request  a  revival  of  the  combination  enter 
tainment,  now  out  of  vogue,  with  a  view  to 
having  it  repeated.  This  was  suppressed  by 
the  Powers,  but  it  got  about  that  one  of  the 
few  type-written  copies  of  the  piece  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  an  Influential  Person — prob 
ably  through  Neal  Burt,  who  admired  it  in 

[  190  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

proportion  to  her  own  far  from  ordinary  abil 
ity — and  that  the  Person  had  assembled  a  se- 
lecl:  gathering  of  her  Peers  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  reading  it,  with  unmistakably  appreciative 
comments,  to  them.  Some  members  of  the 
Faculty,  old  Alpha  girls  themselves,  and  pres 
ent  on  the  occasion  of  its  production,  expressed 
their  admiration  in  unstinted  terms,  and  alto 
gether  the  Alpha  gained  a  tremendous  prestige. 
This  and  her  appointment  as  editor-in-chief 
of  the  Monthly  for  her  senior  year  marked 
the  height  of  Susan's  prosperity.  She  used  to 
think,  afterwards,  that  the  play  was  the  only 
pure  pleasure  she  had  ever  had:  it  was  cer 
tainly  the  only  one  that  her  namesake  had  left 
to  her  unspoiled.  Fate  ordered  it  that  she 
should  take  off  the  bulletin-board  with  her 
notice  of  editorial  appointment  a  note  hastily 
addressed  to  S.  Jackson,  '9-.  She  opened  it 
mechanically. 

DEAR  Old  Sue :  It's  a  miserable  shame !  You 
ought  to  have  had  it!  But  it  seems  that  it 
makes  no  difference  what  we  want,  nor  who  would 
work  in  best  with  the  girls.  Genius  is  nt  every 
thing,  always — but  you  know  what  I  wanted! 

Tour  disappointed 

H.  S.  K. 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

The  note  was  not  sealed,  and  she  folded  it 
and  put  it  back  quietly.  A  moment  later  she 
received  her  congratulations,  but  to  every 
one's  "Of  course  you  're  not  surprised.  Miss 
Jackson!"  she  smiled  strangely.  Sue  used  the 
phrase,  fresh  from  her  own  congratulations 
as  literary  editor,  and  the  concentrated  bit 
terness  of  three  years  flashed  out  in  the  other's 
curt  answer. 

"Of  course  you  're  not  surprised — " 

"Are  you?" 

Sue's  startled  flush  was  all  the  proof  she 
needed,  and  crushing  in  her  hand  the  note  that 
had  meant  the  highest  college  honor  to  more 
than  one  of  the  girls  who  had  got  its  like,  she 
went  home  to  bear  alone  the  sharpest  disap 
pointment  she  had  yet  known. 

There  was  no  one  to  tell  her  that  the  senior 
editor  whose  initials  signed  the  note  for  Sue 
had  been  one  of  only  two  in  Sue's  favor;  that 
the  board,  so  far  from  acting  unwillingly  un 
der  the  direction  of  the  Rhetoric  department, 
as  she  inferred  from  the  note,  had  been  prac 
tically  unanimous  for  her,  particularly  as  the 
two  opposed  held  relatively  unimportant  po 
sitions  and  were  far  from  popular.  She  did 
not  know  that  the  note  itself  was  a  gross 
breach  of  etiquette,  anyway,  and  that  both 
[  19*  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

officially  and  socially  its  writer  had  risked  the 
gravest  censure;  so  much  so  that  Sue,  far 
from  being  pleased,  was  heartily  ashamed  of 
it  and  never  told  a  soul  about  it  till  long  after 
wards.  The  person  who  could  have  explained 
most  effectively  to  her  how  perfectly  her  elec 
tion  met  the  favor  of  everybody,  herself  in 
cluded —  for  Sue  would  have  been  as  surprised 
to  find  herself  placed  above  her  gifted  name 
sake  as  to  have  found  herself  omitted  entirely 
from  the  board — was  too  chagrined  at  the 
abrupt  answer  to  her  congratulations  to  dream 
of  mentioning  the  matter  further. 

So  Susan  got  out  her  first  two  numbers  of 
the  Monthly  with  none  of  the  delighted  im 
portance  of  most  editors.  It  was  all  spoiled 
for  her.  She  knew  that  she  deserved  it:  it 
was  impossible  for  her  not  to  realize  that,  so 
far  as  originality  and  power  went,  nobody  in 
the  class,  or  the  college,  for  that  matter,  could 
touch  her  work.  It  was  not  the  position  that 
meant  so  much  to  her:  she  was  perfectly  com 
petent  to  fill  it  easily  and  acceptably,  and  she 
knew  it.  But  she  wanted  them  to  think  so, 
too,  and  be  glad  to  give  it  to  her — and  she 
did  not  believe  they  were. 

Shortly  after  her  success  of  First  Night, 
she  got  one  of  her  rare  letters  from  home.  She 

[  193  ]' 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

had  little  correspondence  with  them,  and  had 
grown  to  regard  their  letters  with  dread,  since 
each  one  had  brought  unpleasant  news,  from 
Doris',  to  announce  her  engagement  to  one  of 
"the  boys,"  a  flashy,  half-disreputable  fellow, 
to  her  mother's,  enclosing  a  cheque,  with 
gloomy  forebodings  that  it  might  be  the  last, 
and  a  disheartening  chronicle  of  family  affairs 
growing  daily  more  sordid.  The  sight  of  her 
charaderless,  uncultivated  handwriting  always 
threw  the  girl  into  a  gloomy,  irritable  mood, 
and  as  she  opened  this  one  the  remorse  that 
had  begun  to  prick  her  more  sharply  of  late 
at  her  inability  to  help  them,  if  not  in  the  way 
she  would  like,  at  least  in  the  most  obviously 
necessary  manner,  crept  over  her  and  sad 
dened  her  even  before  she  reached  the  crisis 
of  the  letter.  It  was  very  simple:  she  must 
come  home.  There  was  no  more  money;  there 
had  been  none  for  some  time,  but  her  father 
was  bent  on  her  staying,  and  had  put  it  off 
longer  than  he  should  have  done.  It  had  been 
a  foolish  expense,  and  she  might  have  had  a 
position  long  ago.  There  was  car  fare  and  a  very 
little  over,  and  it  was  hoped  that  she  had  no 
bills.  They  were  going  to  move  into  an  apart 
ment  over  the  store,  and  Veronica  was  going 
to  keep  her  father's  books.  And  that  was  all. 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

Perhaps  her  mother  felt  sorrier  than  she 
knew  how  to  say;  perhaps  it  was  only  the  con 
straint  of  years  and  lack  ofsavoirfaire  that  made 
the  letter  so  cold  and  curt;  but  there  it  was, 
with  nothing  to  break  the  shock :  no  regret  for 
her,  to  lighten  her  sense  of  selfishness;  no  ap 
peal  to  her,  even,  to  help  them.  They  could  get 
along  very  well;  to  give  up  the  house  would 
be  a  great  financial  relief,  and  she  would  be 
more  a  hindrance  than  otherwise.  She  knew 
that:  she  knew  that  her  presence  would  be  a 
constant  irritation,  her  criticism,  impossible 
to  conceal,  a  constant  source  of  strife  and  es 
trangement.  It  was  only  that  they  had  no  more 
money  for  her — that  was  all. 

She  walked  out  to  the  long  bridge,  and 
sat  down  on  a  stone  near  the  end  of  it.  For 
perhaps  the  first  time  a  complete  conscious 
ness  of  how  bitterly  she  loved  the  place  came 
to  her.  She,  of  whom  many  of  the  Faculty 
afterwards  wondered  that  she  stayed  as  long 
as  she  did,  credited  by  all  her  acquaintances 
with  infinite  boredom  at  its  restrictions  and 
wearisome  routine,  dreaded  to  leave  it  as 
she  herself  could  hardly  endure  to  think. 
For  three  years  she  had  taken  a  place,  un 
challenged,  among  people  of  a  class  she  had 
never  known  before.  Unknown,  unhelped, 

[  195  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

she  had  by  sheer  personality  and  natural 
power  made  herself  not  only  respected  but 
respected  to  an  unusual  degree.  She  had 
patronized  girls  who  would  not  have  ac 
knowledged  her  existence  three  years  be 
fore;  whether  they  loved  her  or  not,  her  class 
was  proud  of  her.  Her  going  would  be  no 
ticed — oh,  yes  indeed  ! 

She  rose  to  go  home,  and  a  little  beyond 
the  bridge  turned  to  look  back :  something 
told  her  that  she  should  not  know  that  view 
soon  again.  Meadow  and  river  and  softly  cir 
cling  hills  with  the  beautiful  afternoon  haze 
thick  on  them,  she  stamped  it  on  her  heart — 
and  with  it  a  sudden  nearing  figure.  Down 
the  long  arch,  slim  and  shapely  against  the 
blue  background  of  the  tunnel,  Sue  flew 
toward  her  on  her  wheel.  Her  hands  swung 
by  her  sides — she  had  ridden  from  childhood 
— her  feet  were  off  the  pedals,  her  perfectly 
fitting  heavy  skirt  hung  out  in  graceful  fluted 
folds.  Beneath  her  soft,  trim  hat  her  cheeks 
glowed  rose-color,  her  eyes  shone  like  stars. 
The  sun  caught  her  smooth,  thick  hair  and 
framed  her  face  in  a  glittering  halo.  She  sat 
straight  as  a  dart,  her  lips  parted  with  the 
sheer  physical  delight  of  the  swooping,  effort 
less  sensation — she  was  tremendously  hand- 

[  196  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

some.  To  the  other  girl  she  was  victory  incar 
nate;  the  essence  of  ease  and  triumph  and  per 
fect  bien-etre ;  her  hopeless  envy  and  despair. 
As  she  flew  by  she  spread  out  her  hands  in 
a  quick,  significant  gesture,  half  graceful  and 
high-bred — half  pert  and  of  the  music-hall: 
it  typified  her  and  her  friends  perfectly  to  Su 
san,  who  never  forgot  her  as  she  saw  her  then, 
and  whose  Mademoiselle  Diana,  much  admired 
by  Sue  and  her  family,  is  nobody  more  nor 
less  than  Sue  herself. 

She  found  a  letter  waiting  for  her  at  home, 
a  letter  that  the  maid  explained  had  just  been 
brought  from  the  house  where  the  other  Miss 
Jackson  lived — it  had  been  kept  there  by 
mistake  and  neglected  for  two  or  three  days. 
It  was  hoped  it  was  not  important.  She  opened 
it  in  the  hall,  read  it  hastily  through,  read  it 
again,  looked  at  the  date,  and  asked  for  a 
time-table.  The  maid,  suspecting  bad  news, 
was  officious  in  assistance  and  eagerly  agreed 
to  pack  her  things  and  get  a  man  to  box  the 
books  when  she  had  gone,  which  would  be  in 
the  morning,  she  said,  with  a  strange,  absent- 
minded  air.  She  gave  the  girl  her  last  fifty 
cents,  and  while  Maggie  folded  and  packed, 
she  wrote  a  letter  home. 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

"  T  T  seems  foolish  for  me  to  come  to  Troy ;  I 
J-  should  only  have  to  go  right  back  to  Boston 
again"  she  said  in  it.  "They  want  me  to  begin  to 
colleff  the  stories  right  away  and  do  some  reading 
for  them  besides — so  I  must  be  there.  There  is  a 
new  magazine  they  have  just  bought,  too,  and  I  am 
to  do  some  work  on  that.  It  is  a  very  good  posi 
tion  and  will  lead  to  a  better,  they  say,  and  I  am 
very  fortunate  to  get  it.  They  say  very  nice  things 
about  my  work  in  the  "Monthly" — the  college 
paper  that  I  was  elected  editor  of — they  seem  to 
have  read  them  all.  I  must  go  on  immediately. 
Their  letter  was  delayed,  and  I  shall  try  to  get 
there  to-morrow.  I  will  let  you  know  when  I  find 
a  place  to  stay.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  help  you  soon. 
"Hastily,  -SUSAN." 

She  wrote  a  note  to  the  Registrar  and  one 
to  Neal  Burt,  whom,  in  her  letter  of  resigna 
tion,  she  recommended  strongly  to  the  board 
as  her  successor,  overlooking  the  constitution, 
which  provides  for  the  literary  editor's  filling 
the  first  place  when  it  falls  vacant,  and  refus 
ing  supper,  she  walked  out  over  the  campus. 
The  dining-rooms  were  opened  to  the  soft  air; 
the  cheerful  clatter  of  plates  came  out  from 
every  window;  she  could  see  the  maids  hurry 
ing  about.  She  sat  for  an  hour  in  one  of  the 

[  198  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

hammocks,  and  then  walked  about  the  larger 
buildings.  The  last  dance  of  the  season  was 
on  in  the  Gym;  the  violins  rose  above  the 
tramping  and  the  confused  uproar  inside. 
White-armed  girls  passed  the  windows  and 
leaned  out  into  the  cool. 

"How  is  it?  "  one  called  up  from  below. 

"Mortal  slow,  dearie,  but  don't  say  I  told 
you!"  the  other  answered  in  a  stage  whisper 
from  above,  and  the  music  dashed  into  a 
two-step. 

"Be^A/El  Cap-i-tan!" 

It  haunted  Susan's  dreams  for  nights,  that 
tune — it  seemed  impossible  that  the  dancers' 
hearts  should  not  ache  as  hers  did.  She  lin 
gered,  fascinated,  while  the  violins  sang  it 
over  and  over,  and  over  again  at  the  storm  of 
clapping  that  followed  it. 

"BeM^/El  Cap-i-tan!" 

It  was  a  hideous,  cruel  tune,  light  and  utterly 
careless,  and  yet  with  that  little  sadness  in  it 
that  some  sensitive  ears  find  always  in  good 
dance  music — is  it  because  dancing  must  so 
obviously  end  so  soon  ?  — and  Susan  has 
loathed  it  all  her  life.  Indeed, at  a  recent  lunch 
eon  given  in  her  honor  by  the  alumnae  of 
New  York,  she  requested  that  the  orchestra 
stop  playing  it  after  the  first  few  bars — these 

[  199  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

people  of  genius  are  so  delightfully  eccentric! 
She  left  college  as  quietly  as  she  had  en 
tered  it ;  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  would 
have  made  her  Ivy  Orator,  had  she  stayed. 
The  mail  that  took  the  notice  of  her  lodging- 
house  to  her  family  crossed  one  of  Sue's  to 
her  Uncle  Bradford,  of  the  well-known  Bos 
ton  publishing  firm.  Among  other  things  she 
said: 

I'M  glad  you  like  her  so  well — /  knew  you 
would.  She  's  really  much  better  for  the  place 
than  Con.  And  Pm  sure  it  was  better  to  write  to 
her  directly — she  does  n't  like  any  of  us  very  well, 
except  Neal  and  Biscuits,  and  I  have  an  idea 
she  really  almost  dislikes  me.  I  knew  that  when 
you  saw  that  essay  on  the  French  and  English  as 
short-story  writers,  you  'd  want  to  give  her  the 
chance.  And  she  was  the  very  girl  to  leave  col 
lege,  too — //  is  n't  everybody  would  be  so  glad 
to  go  just  before  senior  year.  Not  but  what  I  would, 
fast  enough,  if  I  had  her  future  before  me — Mon 
dieu !  she  's  the  only  girl  I  ever  thought  I  yd 
rather  be — you  should  see  the  poem  she  left  with 
Neal  for  the  "  Monthly  "  /  She  turns  them  off  over 
night,  apparently.  It  ys  a  loss  to  the  class,  of  course, 
but  everybody  is  very  glad  for  her — she  always 
seemed  so  out  of  place  up  here,  somehow.  If  one 
[  200  ] 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 

does  n't  care  for  the  little  footless  stunts,  it  must 
be  a  terrible  bore,  I  should  think.  And  when  she  's 
famous  we  can  fat  each  other  on  the  back  and  say 
we  done  it — -partly.  With  a  great  deal  of  love 
for  you  and  Aunt  Julia, 

SUE. 


THE   SEVENTH   STORY 


A  FEW  DIVERSIONS 


VII 
A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

"  "W"  WISH  you  would  ask  her  up,  Nan/' 
I     said  Mrs.  Harte, confidentially.  "I  want 
I     her  to  see  the  place.  So  far  as  I  can  judge, 
-*"  it's  the  best  thing  for  her.  There  isn't 
any  doubt  that  she 's  a  very  bright  girl,  but  she 's 
getting  thoroughly  spoiled  here.  You  see,  she 
does  just  as  she  pleases — she's  the  only  young 
person  in  the  family — and  I  know  we  spoil 
her  terribly.  Her  mind  is  made  up  to  come 
out  in  the  winter,  here  in  Chicago,  and  they  '11 
refuse  her  nothing — her  father  and  mother." 
"They  don't  seem  what  you  'd  call  oppress 
ively  strict  with  her,"  remarked  Anne,  twirl 
ing  her  racquet. 

"Now  what  I  want  is  for  her  to  get  some 
where  where  she  is  n't  the  only  clever  girl;  to 
see  that  other  girls  can  read  and  talk  and  play 
the  guitar  and  wear  nice  clothes  and  order  silly 
young  men  about.  And  judging  from  those  of 
you  that  I  Ve  seen,  you  can  !" 

"We  do  our  little  best,"  said  Anne,  mod 
estly. 

"And  I  wanted  her  to  see  you  all:  that  's 
one  reason  why  I  planned  the  house-party.  I 
was  so  disappointed  when  she  came  so  late. 
You  see,  her  cousin  Georgiana  was — was  un- 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

fortunate.  She  went  to  Yale  and  Columbia  and 
goodness  knows  where,  and  she  had  short  hair 
and  was  such  a  frump  and  she  wore  such  hide 
ous  spectacles  and  talked  about  Socialism — or 
was  it  Sociology  ? — all  the  time.  I  remember 
she  was  always  trying  to  persuade  us  to  join 
clubs  and  protest  against  something  or  other 
— it  was  very  wearisome.  So  Madge  got  to  de 
spise  the  whole  thing:  she  has  always  thrown 
Georgiana  at  me  when  I  mentioned  college. 
It  was  perfectly  useless  to  try  to  make  her  un 
derstand  that  every  girl  need  n't  be  like  Geor 
giana.  She  's  very  obstinate.  But  she  's  a  nice 
girl,  too,  and  if  she  can  only  get  out  of  her 
present  atmosphere  for  four  years — " 

"Pity  she  couldn't  have  seen  Ursula,  if 
she  's  afraid  we  're  all  frumps,"  Anne  sug 
gested. 

"Yes,  is  n't  it  ?  But  I  think  she  stayed  pur 
posely.  Now,  you  —  she  says  you  're  an  ex 
ception  ;  that  there  can't  be  many  like  you. 
You  see,  Madge  has  a  standard  of  her  own ;  she 
says  she  'd  be  ashamed  to  go  through  college 
the  way  some  of  the  boys  do,  with  just  a  good 
time  and  as  low  marks  as  they  can  safely  get. 
She  says  she  'd  want  to  be  a  student  if  she  pre 
tended  to,  and  yet  she  must  have  a  good  time, 
and—" 

[  206  ] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

"And  she  thinks  it  can't  be  done?  Dear  me, 
what  an  error  !  Well,  if  she  '11  come  up  I  '11 
be  very  glad  to  have  her,  I  'm  sure.  I  can  trot 
out  our  little  pastimes  and  er — omit  the  more 
sociological  side,"  said  Anne,  with  a  grin. 

Mrs.  Harte  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "Yes, 
that 's  just  what  I  mean  !  She  got  enough  of 
that  from  Georgiana.  I  want  her  to  watch 
you — " 

"Sport  about  on  the  lawn?  Gambol  through 
the  village  ?  c  Make  the  picturesque  little  lake 
echo  with  sweet  girlish  gayety,'  as  the  news 
paper  gentlemen  say?" 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  and  Mrs.  Harte  patted 
Anne's  broad  shoulder.  "That 's  what  I  mean, 
you  silly  child.  Just  let  her  see  that  there  are 
a  few  diversions!" 

Miss  Marjory  Cunningham,  who  was  just  , 
then  coming  up  from  the  lake,  was  a  tall, 
well-grown  young  woman  of  seventeen,  with 
a  handsome,  assured  face  and  unexceptionable 
garments.  She  looked  fully  twenty,  and  was 
young  enough  to  find  satisfaction  in  this  cir 
cumstance.  She  had  been  brought  up,  in  the 
orthodox  American  fashion,  to  take  a  promi 
nent  part  in  the  household,  particularly  in  the 
entertainment  of  her  mother's  many  guests; 
and  this,  added  to  the  fact  that  she  happened 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

to  be  much  cleverer  than  the  young  women 
with  whom  her  social  lot  had  hitherto  been 
cast,  inclined  her  to  regard  any  one  under 
thirty  with  a  patronage  somewhat  offensive, 
if  mild. 

She  dropped  down  beside  Anne  as  her  aunt 
left  the  broad  piazza,  and  smiled  politely. 

"Aunt  Frank  says  you  're  going  to-mor 
row,"  she  remarked,  adding  a  little  curiously, 
"Shall  you  be  glad  to  get  back?" 

"East,  you  mean?  Why,  yes.  You  see  I  'm 
a  week  late.  They  've  started  up  the  show 
without  me,  so  to  speak,  and  naturally  it 's 
rather  hard  for  them  to  worry  along.  They 
may  have  given  me  up  and  laid  my  new  little 
single  room  at  Lucilla  Bradford's  feet,  which 
would  more  than  trouble  me." 

"Do  they  allow  you  to  come  back  when 
ever  you  want  to?" 

Miss  Cunningham's  tone  was  that  of  an  in 
dulgent  aunt  toward  a  pet  nephew  on  his 
Christmas  holidays,  and  Anne's  reply  was 
framed  accordingly. 

"Oh,  easily !  They  only  insist  on  our  being 
back  for  the  Glee  Club  concert.  They  're  just 
bound  up  in  that,  you  know.  So  we  usually 
make  a  point  of  it.  I  must  say,"  she  changed 
her  tone,  "I  'd  like  to  hear  Carol  Sawyer's 

[  208  ] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

explanations  to  Miss  Roberts  !  Carol  has  a 
fine  imagination,  but  she  's  used  it  so  much 
of  late  that  she  '11  have  to  surpass  herself  this 
time  to  make  much  impression  on  Robbie. 
You  see  I  have  the  great  good  fortune  to  pos 
sess  an  accommodating  relative:  the  Amia 
ble  Parent  is  far  from  well,  and  asked  me  if 
I  'd  wait  a  week  till  he  could  go  on,  and  cheer 
his  last  moments — smooth  his  pillow,  as  it 
were.  So,  since  I've  never  gone  away  early 
once  and  only  come  back  late  twice  before, 
and  once  with  an  excuse,  I  thought  I  was  safe 
to  stay.  And  I  told  him  that,  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  I  was  languishing  among  dirt 
courts  and  single-piece  drivers  and  Saturday 
hops  and — and  your  noble  family,  I  'd  stick 
it  out  a  week  longer.  Said  I  to  the  Amiable 
Parent: 

"  My  own  convenience  count  as  nil; 
It  is  my  duty,  and  I  will !" 

Next  morning,  when  Nan  came  down  to 
breakfast,  pink  under  her  tan  and  with  that 
air  that  she  always  carried  of  having  just  come 
out  of  the  tub,  Marjory  really  regretted  her  go 
ing.  She  mentioned  to  her  aunt  that  she  would 
have  liked  to  see  more  of  her,  and  that  if  she 
did  go  to  New  York  in  the  spring  she  should 
surely  go  up  to  Northampton.  It  was  not 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

only  because  Miss  Gillatt  danced  and  golfed 
and  drove  and  played  tennis  so  well  that  Mar 
jory's  interest  was  for  the  first  time  roused  in 
a  girl  of  her  own  age,  nor  because  her  clothes 
were  nice  and  her  ways  amusing;  what  struck 
Miss  Cunningham  was  her  guest's  entire  ab 
sence  of  surprise  at  what  she  utterly  failed  to 
recognize  as  an  unusual  amount  of  interest  on 
Marjory's  part. 

"This  is  Marjory — how  do  you  do,  Mar 
jory  ? "  she  had  said  easily  on  their  first  meeting, 
and  she  had  never  cared  to  learn  that  Marjory 
intended  her  own  "  Miss  Gillatt"  for  a  lesson 
to  forward  schoolgirls.  And  she  had  taken 
Marjory's  growing  attentions  quite  as  if  she 
were  accustomed  to  have  handsome  young  wo 
men  talk  to  her  and  row  her  about  and  give 
her  their  photographs.  When  she  had  herself 
mentioned  looking  Nan  up  in  Northampton, 
her  proposition  had  not  evoked  the  grateful 
surprise  that  might  have  been  expected. 

"Glad  to  see  you  any  time,"  the  future 
hostess  had  returned.  "  Better  come  up  in  the 
spring;  it's  a  lot  prettier."  And  Madge  had 
decided  then  and  there  to  go,  though  her  sug 
gestion  had  been  more  or  less  perfunctory. 

She  would  never  have  considered  it  for  a 
moment  had  it  not  been  perfectly  obvious  that 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

the  college  girl  did  not  regard  herself  at  all  in 
the  light  of  a  possible  example.  Georgiana's 
lectures  on  the  Higher  Education  of  Women 
and  its  Ultimate  EffecT:  on  the  Sex  were  not  to 
be  thought  of  in  connection  with  this  athletic 
damsel,  whose  quotations,  though  frequent, 
indicated  a  closer  study  of  Lewis  Carroll  and 
W.  S.  Gilbert  than  her  alma  mater's  official 
catalogue  would  suggest.  She  referred  very  lit 
tle  to  the  college  and  then  only  as  the  scene 
of  incidents  in  which  she  and  her  "young 
friends,"  as  she  invariably  called  them,  had 
taken  amusing  or  amazing  parts.  Marjory's 
chief  impression  had  been  that  of  the  jolliest 
possible  crowd  of  girls,  who  seemed  to  derive 
great  comfort  and  entertainment  from  one  an 
other's  company,  and  it  was  a  half-envious 
desire  to  see  if  they  really  did  this  to  the  ex 
tent  that  Anne  implied,  that  drew  her  to 
Northampton  one  fine  day  in  the  late  spring. 
As  she  stood  on  the  station  platform  look 
ing  in  vain  for  a  tall  girl  with  broad  shoulders 
and  a  persuasive  grin,  she  heard  her  name 
called,  and  turned  to  meet  the  outstretched 
hand  of  a  very  different  person.  This  person 
was  small  and  slender,  with  a  plain,  distin 
guished  little  face,  intelligent  eyes,  and  a  low 
and  charming  voice.  From  the  very  Parisian 

[21!     ] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

arrangement  that  topped  her  shining  coils  of 
hair  to  the  tips  of  her  tiny  shoes,  she  was  one 
of  the  most  thoroughly  well-dressed  young 
women  Marjory  had  ever  seen.  She  reminded 
one  vaguely,  though  not  disagreeably,  of  Mr. 
Wenzell's  piclures,  and  Marjory  failed  ut 
terly  in  a  dazed  attempt  to  correlate  her  and 
Georgiana. 

"You  are  Miss  Cunningham,  are  you  not  ? 
I  am  Ursula  Wyckoff.  Nan  is  so  sorry,  but 
Hodgkinson  Davids  or  Davidson  Hodgkins 
—  I  can't  remember  the  way — has  come  up 
from  New  York  to  play  over  the  course  to 
day,  and  of  course  all  the  golf  people  have  to 
be  out  there.  She  and  Caroline  have  been  there 
all  the  afternoon,  and  I  'm  to  bring  you  out  a 
little  later,  when  they  serve  the  tea.  Is  n't  it 
dreadfully  warm  ?  Nan  's  next  to  Caroline  and 
Caroline  holds  the  championship,  so  they  're 
naturally  interested.  I  don't  play  at  all.  I  was 
so  sorry  to  miss  you  at  the  house-party:  we 
all  fell  in  love  with  your  aunt.  Oh,  no,  New 
York,  but  I  Ve  lots  of  Western  friends:  you 
know  I  've  met  your  aunt  before,  in  Lon 
don.  We  bought  some  Liberty  things,  and  we 
were  staying  at  the  same  hotel,  and  they  sent 
us  each  other's  parcels,  so  we  got  acquainted 
picking  them  out.  There  was  a  lovely  fan;  she 


A   FEW    DIVERSIONS 

said  it  was  for  her  niece.  Was  it  you  ?  I  dream 
of  that  fan  yet." 

They  walked  slowly  up  the  long  street, 
Ursula  chatting  easily,  and  Marjory  wonder 
ing  how  many  of  thegirls  they  passed  belonged 
to  the  college.  They  paused  before  a  drug 
gist's  window,  all  Huyler's  and  violet  soap, 
and  Ursula  walked  by  a  long,  shining  soda 
fountain  to  a  room  in  green  and  white,  with 
little  tables  and  a  great  palm  in  the  centre. 
The  tables  were  very  nearly  filled,  and  there 
was  a  cheerful  clatter  of  tall  spoons  and  a  busi 
nesslike  bustle  of  clerks  with  trays. 

"This  is  Kingsley's,"  said  Ursula,  with  a 
comprehensive  gesture.  "Will  you  have  a 
chocolate  ice  ?"  While  absorbing  the  inviting 
and  pernicious  mixture,  Miss  Cunningham 
looked  about  her  with  interest.  In  one  corner 
four  girls  with  rumpled  shirt-waists  and  dusty 
golf  stockings  squabbled  over  scores,  and  il 
lustrated  with  spoons  preferred  methods  of 
driving  and  putting.  Their  voices  rose  above 
the  level  prescribed  for  drawing-room  conver 
sation,  and  they  called  each  other  strange 
names.  In  another  corner  a  tall,  dark  girl  with 
a  grave  expression  talked  steadily  in  a  low 
voice  to  her  companion,  a  clever-looking  crea 
ture,  whose  bursts  of  laughter  grew  hysterical 

] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

as  the  dignified  one  continued,  with  a  perfectly 
impersonal  manner,  to  reduce  her  to  positive 
tears  of  mirth.  To  them  Ursula  bowed,  and 
the  narrator,  politely  recognizing  her,  went  on 
with  her  remarks,  to  an  accompaniment  of  gur 
gling  protest  from  her  friend.  Near  them  a 
porcelain  blonde,  gowned  in  a  wonderful  pale 
blue  stuff  with  a  great  hat  covered  with  curly 
plumes,  ate  strawberry  ices  with  a  tailor-made 
person  clothed  in  white  pique,  mystic,  won 
derful.  She  was  all  stiffness  and  specklessness, 
and  she  looked  with  undisguised  scorn  at  the 
clamoring  athletes,  a  white  leather  card-case 
in  her  hand.  Near  one  window  a  gypsy-faced 
child  in  a  big  pink  sunbonnet  imparted  mighty 
confidences  to  her  friend,  who  shook  two  mag 
nificent  auburn  braids  over  her  shoulders  with 
every  chuckle. 

"And  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  door  and  of 
course  I  thought  it  was  Helen  or  some  of  the 
girls,  and  I  called  to  come  in  and,  my  dear, 
who  do  you  think  it  was?  It  was  the  express 
man!  'Will  you  sign  this  book?'  said  he,  and 
he  brought  the  book  right  up  to  the  bed  and 
I  leaned  on  my  elbow  and  signed  it!  My  dear, 
was  n't  that  perfectly — " 

"Oh,  well,  it's  awfully  funny  here,  any 
way.  That  beastly  old  laundry  tore  my  lovely 

[2,4] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

lace  nightgown  to  shreds  and  it  was  new,  and 
I  put  in  an  old  dressing-sacque  that  was  all 
in  rags  and  I  was  going  to  throw  it  away,  and 
they  mended  it  carefully  before  they  sent  it 
back!" 

As  they  left  the  room  and  Ursula  waited 
while  the  clerk  looked  up  her  soda  ticket,  the 
door  flew  open  and  an  impish  little  creature, 
with  a  large,  deprecating,  motherly  girl  in  her 
wake,  slipped  into  the  shop. 

"Now  don't  make  for  the  back  room, 
Bertie  dear,  for  there  is  n't  time.  We  Ve  got 
lots  of  places  to  do  yet ! "  she  called,  and  catch 
ing  sight  of  Ursula  she  dashed  up  to  her. 

"What  do  you  think  Alberta  and  I  are  do 
ing?  We  're  so  bored,  and  we  're  going  to  stop 
at  every  drug  store  on  this  side  and  have  an 
ice-cream  soda,  and  the  same  going  back  on 
the  other  side.  Is  n't  that  interesting?  I  tell 
Alberta  it's  bound  to  be — sooner  or  later!" 

"Is  that  a  freshman?"  Marjory  inquired 
competently,  and  Ursula's  eyes  twinkled  as 
she  replied  gravely: 

"No,  that 's  a  senior.  She  has  fits  of  idiocy, 
but  in  her  better  moments  she  's  quite  a  per 
son  to  know.  She  's  in  the  Lawrence  with  me. 
Why  on  earth  she  should  go  and  get  Alberta 
May  and  drag  her  into  degradation  and  dys- 

[  215  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

pepsia,  nobody  knows,  but  she  always  does." 
They  rested  for  a  while  in  Ursula's  room, 
which  was  "more  than  enormous,"  as  Anne 
said — it  was  intended  for  a  double  room  — 
and  furnished  very  delightfully.  There  were 
some  beautiful  Copley  prints  and  a  cast  or  two 
and  a  long  low  shelf  of  books  and  fascinating 
wicker  chairs  with  puffy  cushions.  There  was 
the  inevitable  tea-table  and  chafing-dish  para 
phernalia  and  the  inevitable  couch  with  a  great 
many  Yale  pillows;  but  there  were  not  more 
than  a  dozen  photographs  of  girls  in  any  one 
place  and  only  one  Gibson  girl,  and  she  was 
very  small.  There  was  a  beautiful  desk  all  lit 
tered  with  papers  and  little  photographs  of 
Ursula's  family  and  her  horse  at  home,  and 
a  lot  of  the  pretty  little  cluttering  things  one 
picks  up  abroad.  Marjory  saw  no  girl  with 
such  consistently  fascinating  clothes  as  Ursu 
la's  during  her  visit,  nor  did  she  sit  in  any 
room  so  charming  as  hers,  the  college  girl  be 
ing  a  generation  behind  her  brother  in  this  re 
gard;  but  first  impressions  are  strong,  and 
Ursula's  silver  brushes,  her  beautiful  etching, 
and  the  two  wonderful  rugs  that  nearly  covered 
her  shining  floor  formed  the  stage  setting  for 
all  Marjory's  subsequent  imaginary  dramas. 
They  went  out  to  the  links  by  trolley, 


A   FEW    DIVERSIONS 

through  the  long  quiet  street,  past  pretty 
lawns  and  pleasant  houses,  into  the  real  coun 
try  of  fields  and  scattered  cottages.  Marjory 
learned  how  "the  crowd"  had  vacationed  to 
gether  more  than  once;  how  they  were  going 
up  to  Carol  Sawyer's  place  in  Maine  next  sum 
mer  for  "the  time  of  their  lives";  how,  after 
their  Commencement  obsequies,  they  were  go 
ing  for  two  weeks  to  Nan  at  Sconset  and  live 
in  a  house  all  by  themselves,  and  then  four  of 
them  were  going  abroad  together  with  Nan's 
father — "the  dearest  thing  in  the  world"; 
how  Caroline  was  going  to  study  medicine  in 
Germany  and  Lucilla  Bradford  was  going  to 
be  married  and  continue  to  illumine  Boston, 
and  Ursula  and  her  sister  were  going  to  stay 
indefinitely  in  France  or  Italy  with  various 
relatives. 

They  seemed  to  have  a  very  intimate  knowl 
edge  of  one  another's  affairs,  Marjory  decided, 
as  they  got  out  at  the  links  and  strolled  up  to 
the  tiny  club-house.  A  straggling  crowd  was 
gradually  melting  away  there:  hot, dishevelled 
girls  with  heavy  bags,  cool  and  fluffy  girls  with 
tea-cups,  men  arguing  in  white  flannels  and 
men  conversing  in  frock  coats.  Important  small 
boys  —  professors'  sons  and  their  friends  from 
the  town — caddied  for  the  great  man  and  his 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

followers,  patronizing  the  urchins  who  ordi 
narily  amassed  wealth  from  this  employment, 
and  a  crowd  of  interested  golfers  from  the 
town  trailed  about  the  holes,  admiring,  criticis 
ing,  and  chattering.  Here  and  there  a  crimson 
coat  shone  out,  some  of  the  ladies  tilted  gay 
parasols,  white  duck  dotted  the  grass  every 
where.  It  was  all  very  jolly  and  interesting,  and 
when  Nan  came  up  with  a  white-flannelled 
youth  and  a  cheerful  if  exhausted  friend  whom 
she  introduced  as  "one  of  my  little  mates — 
Caroline  Wilde,"  Marjory  could  have  thought, 
as  she  sipped  her  tea  and  learned  the  score,  that 
she  was  back  on  the  links  at  home. 

Caroline  had  learned  much  and  Nan  had 
held  a  reverent  conversation  with  the  cham 
pion  and  was  basking  in  the  recollection  of  it. 
Marjory  met  an  ardent  golfer  in  marvellous 
stockings,  who  was  with  difficulty  restrained 
from  illustrating,  by  means  of  his  empty  cup 
and  the  parasol  his  fellow-professor  was  guard 
ing,  the  very  latest  method  of  effecting  a  tre 
mendous  drive  from  a  bad  spot  in  the  course, 
and  his  friend  turned  out  to  be  a  classmate  of 
her  brother's;  and  so  they  started  from  Yale, 
which  is  a  very  good  conversational  starting- 
point,  and  their  reminiscences  attracted  Ur 
sula,  who,  with  an  adoring  little  freshman — 
[  "8] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

Ursula  was  never  without  a  freshman— and 
the  Church  and  the  Law  wrangling  pleasantly 
over  a  lost  ball,  was  holding  her  court  in  a  near 
corner.  They  drifted  up,  and  the  Church  and 
the  Law  were  so  amusing  and  well  set  up  that 
Marjory  quite  lost  her  heart  to  them  and  wished 
they  would  come  "West,"  as  they  persisted  in 
calling  Chicago,  remarking  confidentially  that 
nothing  seemed  to  upset  a  person  from  Chi 
cago  so  much  as  that! 

They  rode  home  with  the  Church  and  the 
Law,  while  the  assistant  in  that  great  under 
taking,  the  higher  education  of  women,  raced 
the  trolley  on  a  Columbia  Chainless,  to  the 
wild  delight  of  the  passengers,  who  cheered 
his  futile  efforts  and  bribed  the  motorman  to 
an  exciting  rate  of  speed. 

"Do  you  have  lessons  with  him,  really?" 
Marjory  demanded,  as  they  left  the  rapidly 
churning  golf  stockings  behind  for  the  mo 
ment.  Nan  grinned.  "Do  you,  Ursula?"  she 
repeated.  Ursula  sighed  but  said  nothing,  and 
Nan  explained  that  in  the  midst  of  his  artless 
prattle  last  week  he  had  mentioned  a  written 
lesson  in  the  near  future,  based  upon  certain 
reference  reading.  "It  comes  off  to-morrow," 
she  added  cheerfully,  "and  the  young  Lu- 
cilla  is  hastily  sprinting  through  the  volumes 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

and  gathering  information.  She  sought  the 
seclusion  that  a  cabin  grants  last  night,  and 
when  I  howled  at  her  through  the  keyhole 
that  we  were  going  to  Boyden's  for  the  even 
ing  meal,  she  said  that  if  she  got  through  two 
hundred  pages  and  her  notes  by  then  she  'd 
be  along.  Ursula  does  it  bit  by  bit,  and  then 
tells  us  to  go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard,  but 
little  Lucy  thinks  she  knows  him  better  than 
we  do,  and  she  said  he  would  n't  do  it.  I  told 
her,  go  to,  he  would;  I  saw  it  in  his  eye.  So 
Caroline  started  to  fill  her  fountain  pen — she 
calls  it  that  from  force  of  habit — but  what 
she  really  does  is  to  fill  the  room,  and  what 
drips  over — " 

"There's  Lucilla!"  said  somebody,  and 
they  got  off  the  car  and  teased  Lucilla — a 
small,  tired  person  with  a  prim  little  face  and 
beautiful  manners — all  the  way  down  to  Boy- 
den's.  A  striking,  sulky-looking  girl  with  a 
stylish  golf  suit  that  made  her  look  like  the 
costumers'  plates  of  tailor-made  athletic  maid 
ens,  was  holding  a  table  for  them,  and  she 
turned  out  to  be  Carol  Sawyer.  She  was  the 
first  girl  of  "the  crowd"  Marjory  did  not  like. 
Her  voice  was  loud  and  her  manner  a  little 
overbearing;  she  wore  too  many  rings  and  her 
attitude  toward  the  college  was  very  different 
[  220  ] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

from  the  harmless  nonsense  that  in  the  case 
of  the  other  girls  covered  plenty  of  good  work 
and  a  real  interest  in  it.  She  was  evidently  very 
wealthy,  and  Marjory  caught  herself  wonder 
ing  if  that  was  why  the  others  put  up  with  her. 
When  they  had  half  finished  their  supper — 
and  a  very  good  little  supper  it  was — a  large 
girl,  almost  too  tall  for  a  girl,  in  a  mussy  short 
skirt  and  badly  fitting  shirt-waist  sauntered 
into  the  room.  From  their  own  table  and  most 
of  the  others  a  chorus  of  welcome  went  up. 

"Hello,  Teddy  !"  "Don't  hurry,  Dody  !" 
"Come  over  here,  Dodo  !"  "Theodora,  dear 
child, your  side-comb  is  nearly  out !"  "Have 
some  berries,  Ted?" 

She  included  them  all  in  a  cheerful 
"Hello!"  and  strolled  up  to  Nan's  table. 
"This  is  little  Theodora  Bent,"  said  Nan, 
kindly.  "  She  is  very  shy  and  unused  to  com 
pany,  but  her  heart — " 

"Her  heart,"  little  Theodora  interrupted, 
dragging  a  chair  from  somewhere  and  quietly 
appropriating  Ursula's  creamed  chicken,  "is 
not  here.  It  is  with  our  friend,  Mrs.  Austin, 
who  sits  at  a  lonely  table  wondering  where  her 
loved  ones  are  to-night.  I  met  her  at  the  door. 
'Dorothea,'  said  she — and  why  she  persists 
in  calling  me  Dorothea  we  shall  know,  per- 


SMITH    COLLEGE   STORIES 

haps,  when  the  mists  have  cleared  away — 
c  Dorothea,  there  is  hardly  a  Friday  night  that 
you  girls  are  in  to  supper.  I  'm  sure  I  can't 
see  why  ! '  I  said  that  it  was  strange,  but  it 
just  happened  so.  Then  she  insisted  on  know 
ing  why;  so  I  suggested  that  perhaps  you 
found  the  noise  in  the  dining-room  trying — " 

"Dodo!  you  didn't!" 

"Certainly  I  did.  I  should  suppose  you 
might.  Anybody  who  sits  near  you  certainly 
does  !  And  she  said  that  some  freshman  or 
other  had  been  decorating  the  piazza  all  the 
afternoon,  lying  in  wait  for  me  to  tutor  her, 
and  suggested  that  I  ought  to  manage  better. 
And  I  told  her  I  'd  tutored  three  hours  and 
a  half  to-day  and  I  had  a  written  lesson  and 
Phi  Kappa  Farewell  to-morrow  night,  and  I 
thought  that  if  she  did  n't  object  to  the  fresh 
man  I  'd  leave  her  there  till  next  week.  So  I 
left  her  standing  in  the  door — " 

"A  thing  she  has  never  done  before!"  sang 
Nan,  softly,  and  they  laughed  long  and  mer 
rily,  as  people  laugh  who  are  not  very  ancient, 
and  who  have  just  had  a  good  supper  and  are 
the  best  of  friends. 

It  was  a  little  after  that  that  the  Glee  Club 
sang  on  the  steps  of  Music  Hall,  while  crowds 
of  girls  streamed  out  and  sat  on  the  grass  and 
[  222  ] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

wandered  up  and  down  or  listened  on  dormi 
tory  steps.  They  sang  sweet  songs  and  funny 
songs,  and  the  audience  sitting  on  the  campus 
clapped  and  clapped  again.  Their  repertoire 
amazed  Miss  Cunningham,  who  had  been 
firmly  impressed  with  the  idea  that  A  Spanish 
Cavalier  and  Aunt  Dinah's  Quilting  Party  were. 
necessarily  sung  by  the  college  girl  to  the  ex 
clusion  of  all  other  melodies.  She  was  used 
to  them  now,  used  to  pigtails  and  puffs,  shirt 
waists  and  evening  dresses,  Western  rolled  r's 
and  Eastern  broad  a's,  handsome  matronly 
young  women,  and  slim,  saucy  little  chits,  soli 
tary  walkers,  devoted  pairs,  and  rollicking 
bands.  The  light  faded  imperceptibly,  turn 
ing  the  ugly  brick  to  a  soft  pink,  bringing  out 
the  pal£  mingling  of  colors  that  spread  over 
the  smooth,  green  campus,  with  here  and 
there  a  girl  vivid  in  crimson  or  violet.  The 
leader  raised  her  hand  and  they  started  a 
medley,  with  queer  changes  and  funny  little 
turns. 

Three  blind  mice  ! 
See  how  they  run  ! 

They  all  ran  after  the  farmer's  wife  — 
For  she  was  the  jewel  of  Asia, 
Of  Asia, 
Of  Asia— 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

How  happy  they  seemed,  how  well  able  to 
amuse  each  other! 

Then,  as  the  faces  on  the  steps  grew  indis 
tinct  and  the  little  night  noises  grew  plainer, 
just  as  the  Club  turned  to  go  in  somebody 
called,  " Mandalayl"  The  crowd  took  it  up 
and  "Mandalay!"  sounded  from  all  the 
groups.  Three  or  four  girls  with  guitars 
turned  up  from  somewhere,  and  a  mandolin 
was  produced  from  the  Hubbard;  a  tall,  slen 
der  girl  stepped  out  a  little  from  the  rest  and 
turned  upon  the  waiting  audience  the  kind  of 
soft,  rich  voice  that  sounds  rough  and  strained 
indoors,  but  only  a  little  thrilled  and  anxious 
in  the  open  air. 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward  to 

the  sea, 

There  's  a  Burma  girl  a-settin'  an'  I  know  she  thinks 
o'  me  ! 

Some  of  the  girls  perched  on  balcony  rail 
ings;  some  leaned  on  each  other's  shoulders; 
the  strolling  pairs  and  groups  stopped,  inter 
locked,  and  listened  as  attentively  as  if  they 
did  not  already  know  it  by  heart;  their  white 
dresses  glimmered  among  the  shrubbery.  Ur 
sula  and  Theodora  Bent,  a  strange  pair,  Mar 
jory  thought,  had  dropped  down  on  a  bench, 
the  little  graceful  figure  balanced  on  the  back 
[  224  ] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

of  the  seat  with  one  arm  over  the  broad  shoul 
ders  of  her  big,  careless  friend.  Nan's  merry 
face  took  on  the  almost  wistful  look  that  music 
always  brought  there,  and  Marjory  wondered 
if  the  silent,  waiting  group  knew  how  soft  their 
eyes  grew  and  how  much  alike  they  all  looked 
suddenly. 

An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  out  er  China 
'crost  the  Bay  ! 

A  moment  of  silence,  a  burst  of  applause, 
and  the  crowd  was  scurrying  away  as  if  a  bell 
had  struck.  The  chatter  rose  again,  the  faces 
changed,  and  to  crown  the  transformation  a 
tall,  dark  girl  with  a  handsome  face — the  girl 
they  had  seen  at  Kingsley's — rose  languidly 
from  the  top  step  of  the  Washburn  and  sang 
with  a  startling  imitation  of  the  first  singer, 
to  a  group  of  girls  about  her: 

Oh,  that  Road  to  Mandalay ! 
Must  we  hear  it  night  and  day  ? 
For  the  author  'd  swear  like  thunder  if  he  heard  it 
sung  that  way ! 

Wild  applause  and  a  cry  of,  "  Second  verse, 
Neal!  second  verse!"  followed,  and  as  they 
walked  past  the  Hatfield  by  a  group  of  girls 
audibly  disapproving  of  the  parody  and  its 
singer,  they  caught  the  second  verse: 


SMITH   COLLEGE    STORIES 

For  they  sing  it  ev'ry  evening,  and  they  sing  it  ev'ry 

morn  ; 
They  will  sing  it  at  my  fun'ral  —  was  it  sung  when 

I  was  born  ? 
Just  as  soon  as  I  reach  heaven,  and  they  teach  me 

how  to  play, 
Oh,  I  know  the  tune  I  learn  on  will  be  Road  to 

Mandalay  ! 

The  juniors  chuckled,  and  as  Nan  com 
mended  the  abilities  of  the  cynical  senior, 
Marjory  remembered  her  face  as  it  had  been 
a  few  minutes  before,  and  wondered. 

They  took  her  to  her  boarding-house  and 
left  her  to  get  to  bed,  for  she  was  tired.  And 
in  the  morning  she  went,  by  previous  arrange 
ment,  to  the  Lawrence,  whence  Dody  Bent  took 
her  down  to  Boyden's  to  eggs  and  toast,  and 
coffee  in  a  shining  silvery  pot,  and  said  that  in 
consequence  of  the  apparently  unchanged  in 
tentions  of  Dr.  Robbins  she  should  necessa 
rily  be  much  engaged  from  ten  until  eleven 
and  the  few  scant  minutes  preceding  those 
hours,  and  that  Misses  Gillatt,  Bradford,  and 
Wyckoff  expelled  to  be  similarly  occupied. 
Caroline  Wilde,  however,  who  apparently  did 
little  but  work  in  the  laboratory  and  keep 
out-of-doors,  would  be  charmed  to  row  her 
about  Paradise. 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

Accordingly,  at  a  few  minutes  after  nine, 
Marjory  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  main  stair 
case,  swaying  backward  and  forward  in  the 
chapel  rush,  and  picked  out  Caroline,  saunter 
ing  down  with  a  cheerful  "Hello!"  for  every 
body  on  the  stairs  and  that  air  of  leisure  that 
was  the  despair  and  admiration  of  the  perpet 
ually  rushed;  for  she  was  one  of  the  notori 
ously  busy  people  in  the  college — always  "at 
everything,"  distressingly  competent  in  sev 
eral  of  the  stiffest  courses  offered,  the  first  aid 
to  the  injured  in  any  capacity,  and  the  prop  of 
more  committees  than  she  had  fingers.  She 
was  always  perfectly  well  and  always  wore  a 
shirt-waist,  and  she  was  one  of  the  exceedingly 
few  people  who  are  equally  popular  with  stu 
dents,  Faculty,  and  ladies-in-charge. 

She  pulled  Marjory  about  in  the  most 
scientific  manner  over  a  somewhat  restricted 
body  of  water  boasting  a  great  deal  of  scenery 
for  its  size,  conversing  at  length  on  basket 
ball,  in  which  she  had  been  twice  defeated, 
and  not  at  all  on  golf  and  tennis,  in  which  she 
held  the  college  championship.  In  the  course 
of  her  remarks  it  became  apparent  that  Ur 
sula  and  Dodo  formed  one  third  of  "their 
crowd,"  she  and  Nan  another  third,  and  Lu- 
cilla  and  Carol  Sawyer  one  sixth  each. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

Of  Lucilla  there  seemed  to  be  little  to  say: 
she  was  of  extensive  ancestry  and  made  the 
best  fudge  in  the  place.  She  was  also  a  good 
person  to  tell  things  to  and  was  always  quiet 
and  polite.  Dodo  spoke — very  literally — for 
herself.  She  was  one  of  the  best  adresses  in  the 
college;  she  had  some  very  bad  quarter-hours 
back  of  her  continual  nonsense;  she  was  poor, 
and  there  was  something  the  matter  all  the 
time  at  home.  Ursula  was  one  of  the  all  'round 
girls  of  the  college;  she  did  beautiful  work, 
and  wrote  very  well  and  knew  a  lot — and  her 
clothes  !  She  dressed  for  the  crowd.  Nan  was, 
of  course,  the  best  girl  in  the  world,  as  might 
be  seen  by  anybody  with  an  eye  in  its  head. 

And  Carol  ?  Oh,  Carol  was  all  right.  You 
had  to  come  to  know  her,  that  was  all.  Peo 
ple  did  n't  understand  Carol.  Her  mother  died 
when  she  was  a  baby,  and  she  did  n't  like 
her  Eastern  aunt,  who  took  care  of  her  part 
of  the  time.  They  were  really  ridiculously 
wealthy,  and  her  father  was — well,  her  father 
was  n't  very  attractive.  She  had  lived  a  great 
deal  in  San  Francisco,  and  in  the  West  girls 
do  very  much  more  as  they  please,  you  know. 
There  was  n't  a  more  generous  girl  on  the  face 
of  the  earth.  She  was  a  mighty  good  friend  to 
her  friends.  People  said  she  was  being  tutored 

228 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

through  college.  It  was  n't  so.  And  what  if  she 
was  ?  Look  at  the  men  !  Her  bark  was  worse 
than  her  bite:  she  said  more  than  she  did.  If 
all  the  things  she  had  done  for  people  up  here 
were  known  —  but  she  would  be  horribly  angry 
if  they  were. 

It  occurred  to  Marjory  during  that  morn 
ing  and  afterwards,  as  she  was  handed  impar 
tially  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  six  juniors 
who  constituted  her  entertainment  commit 
tee,  that  it  was  well  to  have  five  friends  to 
take  care  of  your  character  with  the  world. 

In  the  evening  she  went,  by  favor  of  Ursula 
and  Dodo,  in  the  character  of  a  distant  rela 
tive,  to  the  entertainment  proper  of  the  Phi 
Kappa  Farewell,  a  play  given  to  the  seniors 
of  that  honorable  body  by  the  juniors.  Noth 
ing  but  a  detailed  account  of  the  drama  could 
worthily  treat  of  it,  and  that  cannot  be  given. 
It  was  a  melodrama  based  on  the  Spanish 
War,  adapted  from  ablood-and-thunder  novel 
into  a  play  of  five  acts  with  three  and  four 
scenes  to  the  act.  A  large  cast  presented  it,  com 
prising  revolutionists,  Cubans,  spies,  U.  S. 
Army  and  Navy,  native  population,  planters, 
New  York  belles,  and  English  nobility,  and 
there  were  slow  deaths,  ghastly  conspiracies, 
horribly  pathetic  separations,  magnificent  pa- 
[  229  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

triotic  tableaux,  and  a  final  and  startling  ad 
justment  that  exceeded  in  scenic  display  the 
wildest  expectation  of  the  enraptured  audi 
ence. 

From  the  first  act,  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  par 
lor,  furnished  with  a  toy  piano  perched  on  a 
card-table  and  a  Vision  of  Elegance  accom 
panying,  with  much  execution  and  one  finger, 
a  rival  Vision  who  rendered  My  bonnie  lies  over 
the  ocean  with  dramatic  fervor  and  a  sob  that 
recalled  Bernhardt,  while  Dodo,  in  irreproach 
able  evening  dress  and  a  curly  mustache,  de 
votedly  turned  the  half-inch  sheet  music,  one 
elbow  ostentatiously  leaned  on  the  twelve-inch 
piano;  to  the  ecstatic  finale  in  the  Havana  Ca 
thedral,  where  two  marvellous  brides  in  win 
dow-curtain-trained  wedding  dresses,  orange 
blossoms,  and  indefinite  yards  of  white  mos 
quito  netting  were  led  to  the  altar  by  a  no 
ble  naval  officer  and  a  haughty  peer  of  the 
realm,  the  entire  cast  in  the  character  of  bri 
dal  party  performing  an  elaborate  ballet  to  the 
Lohengrin  March,  the  procession  preceded  by 
a  priest  two-stepping  solemnly  at  the  head,  it 
was  the  most  astonishingly,  cleverly,  unspeak 
ably  idiotic  performance  M  arj  ory  had  ever  seen. 
Revolvers  went  off,  victims  shrieked,  dons 
and  donas  sneered,  terrible  shell-trimmed, 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

tawny-skinned  natives  leaped  and  brandished 
and  gabbled,  virtue  pleaded,  and  villainy  cried 
"  Ha,  ha ! "  and  everybody  called  upon  Heaven 
except  the  peer  of  the  realm,  who  very  prop 
erly  called  upon  England.  They  rolled  their 
r's  and  smote  their  chests  and  spoke  in  a  vi 
brating  contralto,  while  at  the  proper  places 
the  audience  groaned  and  clapped  and  hissed 
and  at  the  end  fairly  thundered  its  applause. 

Nobody  who  had  seen  the  two  heroines  un 
der  a  trusty  Spanish  escort  travelling  through 
a  mountain  gorge,  half  of  the  escort  placidly 
dragging  a  ramping,  double-breasted  rocking- 
horse  cart,  and  the  other  half  cavorting  grace 
fully  about  with  a  small  mounted  horse  under 
his  arm,  could  ever  forget  the  sight;  nor  the 
languishing  ladies  in  glorious  Spanish  cos 
tumes  tossing  their  trains  behind  and  coquet 
ting  with  enormous  fans  as  they  conspired  in 
dramatic  and  deep-chested  asides  to  the  audi 
ence. 

Ursula,  Dodo,  and  another  genius  had 
adapted  this  never-sufficiently-to-be-praised 
work,  and  they  appeared  flushed  and  panting 
from  the  wedding  scene,  to  receive  the  ovation 
prepared  for  them.  Ursula  said  that  to  have 
seen  Martha  Williams  in  undisguised  hysteria 
and  B.  S.  Kitts  and  Susan  Jackson  collapsed 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

in  their  chairs  was  honor  enough  for  her,  and 
that  she  would  willingly  have  worked  twice 
as  hard  as  she  did  for  it.  Then  they  went  over, 
costumes  and  all,  to  the  Dewey,  to  eat  ices  and 
go  home,  for  the  play  had  occupied  two  hours 
or  more  and  such  a  strain  was  naturally  some 
what  enervating,  as  Biscuits  said. 

They  took  breakfast  next  morning  in  Ur 
sula's  room:  strawberries  and  rich  chocolate 
and  rolls  and  scrambled  eggs.  Lucilla  cooked  it 
in  two  chafing-dishes,  and  Carol  and  Caroline 
came  over  from  the  Morris  to  share  it,  Carol 
in  a  magnificent  fluffy  party-cloak  with  a  gor 
geous  crepe  kimono  under  it,  Dodo  in  a  hide 
ous  house-jacket,  and  Caroline  in  the  inevi 
table  shirt-waist.  Then  Ursula  went  to  church 
in  a  heavenly  lavender  batiste  and  white-rab 
bit  gloves,  as  Nan  called  them ;  Lucilla  accom 
panied  her  in  a  demure  little  checked  silk,  and 
Carol  sulked  in  her  room,  wrapped  in  the 
kimono. 

Dodo  wrote  some  difficult  letters  home, 
and  took  a  walk  to  get  over  them;  Caroline 
tramped  out  to  Florence,  where  she  conducted 
afunny  little  Sunday-school — in  a  shirt-waist; 
Marjory  and  Nan  strolled  out  to  Paradise  and 
talked.  They  dined  in  state  with  the  house  and 
its  guests  on  the  traditional  Sunday  turkey, 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

Nan  speculating  solemnly  on  the  exhaustless 
energy  of  Providence,  except  for  whose  cease 
less  intervention  the  race  of  turkeys  must  long 
since  have  become  extinct.  Later  they  retired 
to  the  parlor  and  sat  on  sofas  while  the  after- 
dinner  Sunday  music  was  performed — an 
apparently  mechanical  process  where  the  same 
girls  offered  the  same  things  to  the  same  au 
dience  with  the  same  expression  that  they  had 
presented  the  Sunday  before.  The  Marche 
Funebre  received  the  usual  sighs  of  pleasure, 
an  optimistic  young  lady  rendered  the  love 
song  from  Samson  et  Dalila,  and  at  unmistak 
able  evidences  of  approaching  Mandalay  the 
occupants  of  the  sofa  nearest  the  door  mur 
mured  something  about  letters  and  melted 
away. 

To  vespers,  referred  to  by  the  devout  as 
"the  sweetest  of  the  college  services,"  entitled 
by  the  profane  "the  Sunday  strut,"  owing  to 
the  toilets  of  the  carefully  selected  ushers 
and  the  general  prevalence  of  millinery,  Mar 
jory  did  not  go,  for  returning  from  a  walk 
with  Lucilla,they  found  Miss  Gillatt  pinching 
the  ears  of  a  gentleman  upon  whose  lap  she 
sat,  whose  not  too  abundant  hair  she  had  ar 
ranged  in  peculiarly  foolish  spirals  that  bobbed 
over  his  ears  as  he  responded  to  the  introduc- 


SMITH    COLLEGE   STORIES 

tion,  "Voila  le  fere  aimable!  II  est  arrive  avec 
un  box  enorme — c'esf  un  enfant  bien  gentil,  nest- 
cepas?  Nous  en  manger ons  to-morrow  night,  mon 
Dieu,  and  for  once  nous  aurons  quelqu  chose  fit 
to  eat — hein?  A  moi,  Lucille — il  y  aura  une 
chaleur  excessive  dans  la  ville  ancienne  ce  soir!" 

Le  pere  aimable  greeted  Marjory  with  an 
unfeigned  interest,  and  when  to  his  inquiring 
"Cunningham? Cunningham?  I  don't  remem 
ber  Cunningham,  do  I,  Nannie?"  Nan  re 
plied  easily,  "Oh,  no,  she  's  not  a  regular  in 
mate!"  Marjory  felt  suddenly  left  out  and 
undeserving,  somehow,  of  all  the  joy  in  store. 

It  was  worth  being  away  from  home  to  be 
one  of  the  four  girls  who  hung  upon  the 
Amiable  Parent  the  next  day  as  he  wandered 
happily  through  the  campus,  distributing  Al- 
legretti  and  admiration  as  he  went.  He  beamed 
upon  them  all,  annexing  the  pretty  ones  re 
gardless  of  expense,  as  his  irreverent  daughter 
put  it.  He  chartered  a  tally-ho,  and  they  tooted 
off  to  Chesterfield  and  broke  the  horn  be 
yond  repair,  convulsing  him  with  laughter  all 
the  way.  Caroline  cut  her  laboratory  for  it  and 
enjoyed  it  "with  a  serene  and  sickly  suavity 
known  only  to  the  truly  virtuous,"  to  use  her 
friends'  quotation;  Dodo  was  a  continuous 
performance  all  the  way;  and  at  Chesterfield 
[  234  ] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

they  ate  till  there  was  little  left  in  the  village, 
as  it  had  not  been  sufficiently  forewarned  of 
their  invasion. 

They  got  back  in  time  to  dress,  and  here 
Marjory's  ideas  sustained  a  distinct  shock. 
She  had  always  perfectly  understood  from  the 
fiction  devoted  to  such  descriptions  that  it  was 
the  custom  of  young  ladies  at  boarding-schools 
and  colleges,  when  they  wished  to  be  peculiarly 
uproarious  and  sinful,  to  gather  in  carefully 
darkened  apartments,  robed  in  blanket-wrap 
pers  and  nightgowns,  with  braided  or  dishev 
elled  hair,  in  order  to  eat  olives  and  pickles 
with  hat-pins  from  the  bottles,  toasting  marsh- 
mallows  at  intervals,  and  discussing  the  suit 
ability  of  cribs  and  the  essential  qualities  of 
really  earnest  friendships.  But  the  consump 
tion  of  the  "box  enorme"  was  differently  or 
ganized.  If  she  had  n't  brought  any  evening 
dress  it  did  n't  matter,  Nan  assured  her,  but 
they  considered  the  event  more  than  worthy 
of  it,  though  it  was  n't  an  occasion  for  a  Prom 
costume  by  any  means. 

All  the  way  down  the  corridor  she  smelled 
it,  that  night  at  seven.  It  was  necessarily  far 
from  private — envious  upper-class  girls  not 
invited  sniffed  it  from  afar,  and  the  three  little 
freshmen  who  waited  on  them  glowed  with 


SMITH   COLLEGE    STORIES 

pride  and  anticipation.  It  was  in  Ursula's 
room,  for  Nan's  was  too  small  and  the  guests 
used  it  for  a  cloak-room.  Mrs.  Austin  greeted 
her  cordially  at  the  door,  and  Marjory,  who 
had  always  supposed  that  those  in  authority 
were  constitutionally  opposed  to  spreads,  could 
not  realize  that  her  wreathed  smiles  were  gen 
uine.  She  did  not  know  that  the  Amiable 
Parent  had  dutifully  called  upon  Mrs.  Austin 
in  all  good  form,  openly  discussed  the  spread, 
and  cannily  presented  the  lady  with  a  fasci 
nating  box  of  Canton  ginger-buds — ginger 
being  the  Amiable  Parent's  professional  in 
terest. 

When  they  were  assembled,  a  baker's  dozen 
of  them,  the  Amiable  Parent  grinning,  as  his 
dutiful  daughter  expressed  it,  like  a  Cheshire 
cat  over  his  capacious  shirt-front,  Marjory 
made  their  acquaintance  over  again  from  the 
evening-dress  standpoint.  Against  the  dark 
furniture  and  bookbindings  their  shoulders 
shone  soft  and  white ;  their  hair  was  piled  high ; 
they  looked  two  or  three  years  older.  Ursula 
in  pink  taffeta,  with  coral  in  her  glossy  dark 
coils,  was  a  veritable  marquise ;  Nan  in  white 
with  lavender  ribbons,  and  a  pale  amethyst 
against  her  throat,  was  transformed  from  a 
jolly,  active  girl  to  a  handsome  young  woman 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

with  charmingly  correct  shoulders;  Caroline 
was  almost  pretty;  Lucilla's  small  prim  head 
was  set  on  the  most  beautiful  tapering  little 
neck  in  the  world.  Only  Dodo  in  an  organdie 
many  times  laundered  was  the  same  as  ever, 
bony,  awkward,  and  the  greatest  fun  possible; 
while  Carol's  strange  half-sullen  face  looked 
more  impassive  than  ever  under  her  heavy 
turquoise  fillet. 

The  freshmen,  shy  but  delighted,  passed 
them  "food  after  food," as  Dodo  called  it:  cold 
roast  chicken,  lobster  salad  on  crisp,  curly 
lettuce,  delicious  thin,  little  bread-and-butter 
sandwiches  with  the  crusts  off,  devilled  eggs, 
stuffed  olives,  almonds  and  ginger.  There  was 
a  great  sheet  of  fudge-cake,  which  is  a  two- 
storied  arrangement  of  solid  chocolate  cake 
with  a  thick  fudge  filling  and  a  half-inch  icing, 
a  compound  possible  of  safe  consumption  to 
girls  and  ostriches  only  .There  were  dozens  and 
dozens  of  a  fascinating  kind  of  thin  wafer  filled 
with  nuts,  and  there  were  plates  of  chocolate 
peppermints.  Also  there  were  many  bottles  of 
imported  ginger  ale,  which  the  freshmen  pre 
sented  in  graceful,  curved  glasses  after  the  Ami 
able  Parent  had  with  much  chuckling  pulled 
the  corks,  the  freshmen  pitching  these  last 
cheerfully  down  the  corridor  at  their  friends 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

who  came  to  scoff  but  went  away  to  pray.  That 
immediate  amalgamation  with  the  class  of  her 
hostesses  which  always  occurs  to  guests  made 
Marjory  regard  the  pretty  waitresses  with  up 
per-class  patronage,  till  it  occurred  to  her  that 
they  might  be  older  than  she,  and  that  after 
all.  .  .  . 

One  in  especial,  whom  the  Amiable  Parent 
insisted  on  feeding  from  his  own  plate,  was 
very  pretty  and  apparently  very  popular.  But 
why  the  brown-eyed,  red-cheeked  adorer  of 
Ursula  should  be  'Theo  Root,  while  Miss  Bent 
was  always  Dodo ;  why  Alida  Fosdick  was  Dick, 
but  Serena  Burdick  was  Serena ;  why  Eliza 
beth  Twitchell  was  Twitchie,  but  Elizabeth 
Mitchell  was  Betty ;  why  Ursula  was  always 
Ursula,  and  Nan  was  often  Jack  and  some 
times  Pip  (it  was  because  Captain  Gadsby  was 
one  of  her  famous  parts)  Marjory  could  not  tell. 

When  they  were  through  and  not  another 
of  all  those  two  pounds  of  almonds  could  be 
eaten,  and  the  freshmen  had  carried  off  the 
remains  to  dispose  of  them  in  the  most  ob 
vious  and  economical  manner,  they  proceeded 
to  "do  stunts,"  to  the  boundless  joy  of  the 
Amiable  Parent.  Dick  Fosdick,  a  plain,  heavy- 
eyed  senior,  arose,  draped  in  a  black  cashmere 
shawl,  and  delivered  a  leclure  on  the  suffrage 

[  238  ] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

in  a  manner  to  cause  one  to  pinch  oneself  to 
make  sure  it  was  not  a  dream  and  she  was  not 
forty-five  and  horrible.  The  Amiable  Parent 
choked  to  suffocation,  vowed  she  was  the 
cleverest  aclress  this  side  the  water,  and  called 
for  the  next.  Dodo,  with  lifted  skirts  and  ut 
terly  unmoved  features,  jumping  up  heavily 
and  landing  on  both  feet  with  turned-in  toes 
— she  followed  the  good  old  custom  of  tan 
walking-boots  with  evening  dress — droned  in 
a  monotonous  nasal  chant,  to  which  her  thud 
ding  feet  kept  time,  an  unholy  song  of  no  tune 
whatever : 

Oh,  it 's  dance  like  a.  fairy  and  sing  like  a  birdy 
And  sing  like  a  bird, 
And  sing  like  a  bird, 

It 's  dance  like  a  fairy  and  sing  like  a  birdy 
Sing  like  a  bird  in  June  ! 

Anybody  who  has  not  seen  this  done  by  a 
solemn-looking  girl  of  five  feet  seven  or  so, 
who  divests  a  naturally  humorous  mouth  of 
any  expression  whatever,  and  lands  on  the 
floor  like  an  inspired  steam-roller,  is  not  in  a 
position  to  judge  of  the  comic  quality  of  the 
performance. 

Nan,  with  much  coy  reluctance  and  very 
Gallic  gestures,  rendered  what  was  pessimisti 
cally  called  her  "naughty  little  French  song." 
[  239  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Its  burden  was  not  discoverably  pernicious, 
however,  consisting  of  the  question,  "  O  Jean 
Baptiste^pourquoi?"  occasionally  varied  by  the 
rapturous  answer,  "O  Jean  Baptiste,  voila!" 
But  there  was  accent  enough  to  make  any 
thing  naughty,  and  she  looked  so  pretty  they 
made  her  do  it  again. 

Lucilla   resisted   many   appeals,  but   suc 
cumbed  finally  to  the  Amiable  Parent,  who 
could  wheedle  the  gate  off  its  hinges,  accord 
ing  to  his  daughter,  and  delivered  her  "one 
and  only  stunt."  She  had  performed  it  steadily 
since  freshman  year,  always  with  the  same  wild 
success,  never  with  a  hint  of  its  palling.  Mar 
jory  wondered  why  they  laughed  so — they 
all  knew  it  by  heart — and  asked  if  anybody 
else  never  did  it;  their  amazed  negative  im 
pressed  her  greatly.  She  stood  before  them 
slim  and  straight,  this  daughter  of  a  hundred 
Bostonians,  a  little  cold,  a  little  bored,  a  little 
displeased,  apparently,  and  with  an  utterly 
emotionless  voice  and  a  quite  impersonal  man 
ner  delivered  the  most  senseless  doggerel  in 
the  most  delicately  precise  enunciation: 
Baby  sat  on  the  window  ledge, 
Mary  pushed  her  over  the  edge. 
Baby  broke  into  bits  so  airy  — 
Mother  shook  her  finger  at  Mary. 
[   240  ] 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

Sarah  poisoned  mother's  tea, 

Mother  died  in  agonee. 

Father  looked  quite  sad  and  vexed  — 

"Sarah,  my  child,"  he  said,  "what  next?" 

Any  one  to  whom  this  seems  a  futile  and 
non-humorous  piece  of  verse  needs  only  to 
hear  Lucilla's  delivery  of  it,  and  catch  the 
almost  imperceptible  shade  of  displeasure  and 
surprise  that  touched  her  slender  eyebrows  at 
the  last  line,  to  realize  that  all  similar  exhibi 
tions  must  seem  forever  crude  beside  it. 

They  begged  Marjory  to  sing  and  got  her 
a  guitar.  As  it  had  slowly  dawned  on  her  that 
most  of  the  girls  in  the  room  played  some 
thing,  and  that  at  least  one  third  of  them  be 
longed  to  one  or  another  of  the  musical  clubs 
besides  the  many  other  organizations  they 
carried,  and  thought  nothing  whatever  of  it — 
or  concealed  it  if  they  did — her  estimate  of 
a  hitherto  much  prized  accomplishment  had 
steadily  decreased.  She  sang  a  little  serenade 
for  them,  however,  more  tremulously  than  she 
had  been  wont  to  sing  for  a  crowd  of  young 
people,  and  took  an  unreasoning  and  dispro 
portionate  amount  of  pleasure  in  their  hearty 
applause.  She  sang  again,  and  when  Miss  Cor 
nelia  Burt,  who  turned  out  to  be  the  dark  girl 
she  had  watched  at  Kingsley's  and  recognized, 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

thanked  her  particularly  and  told  her  with  a 
smile  that  she  should  "come  up"  and  sing 
that  with  the  Glee  Club,  Marjory  remembered 
that  she  was  a  prominent  senior,  and  found 
her  heart  beating  a  little  faster  when  her  friend 
Miss  Twitchell,  also  prominent,  repeated  the 
suggestion.  It  could  not  be,  she  asked  herself 
a  moment  afterwards,  that  she  was  proud  to 
have  them  notice  her  ? 

There  were  more  stunts,  for  the  Amiable 
Parent  could  not  have  enough  of  what  Nan 
called  Dodo's  Anglo-Saxon  attitudes.  Only 
the  bell  brought  a  stop  to  the  proceedings, 
which  had  grown  more  and  more  hilarious, 
ending  with  a  toast  in  ginger  ale,  to  the  de 
lighted  hero  of  the  feast : 
Oh,  here's  to  Nannie's  Dad,  drink  him  down! 
Oh,  here's  to  Nannie's  Dad,  drink  him  down! 
Oh,  here's  to  Nannie's  Dad, 
He's  the  best  she  could  have  had, 
Drink  him  down,  drink  him  down,  drink  him  down, 
down,  down! 

Nan  and  he  and  Marjory  went  out  into  the 
cool,  dark  campus,  and  they  marched  to  "  Balm 
of  Gilead"  all  the  way  to  Marjory's  boarding- 
house.  She  watched  them  from  her  window, 
tramping  arm-in-arm  down  to  the  hotel,  where 
Nan  was  to  stay  the  night  with  him.  Nan  had 


A   FEW   DIVERSIONS 

explained  that  while  of  course  it  would  be  a 
trial  to  her  to  be  obliged  to  select  her  own 
breakfast,  still  her  relative  had  desired  it,  and 
she  had  as  usual  bidden  him  "her  own  con 
venience  count  as  nil." 

Marjory  undressed  slowly,  humming  the 
tune  they  had  marched  to  and  surveying  the 
plain  boarding-house  bed-room.  It  seemed 
lonely  after  the  Lawrence,  and  there  was  no 
dashing  about  in  the  halls,  nor  glimpses  of 
fudge-parties  and  rarebits  and  laughing,  busy 
people  through  half-shut  doors. 

"Still,  that  Miss  Burt  was  off  the  campus," 
she  murmured  as  she  braided  her  hair;  and 
as  she  set  the  alarm-clock  somebody  had 
loaned  her — for  she  took  an  early  train — 
and  climbed  into  bed,  she  explained  to  an 
imaginary  aunt  that  people  on  the  temporary 
list  with  no  campus  application  whatever  often 
"got  on"  miraculously — Lucilla  had  done 
that,  and  Caroline ! 


[  243  ] 


THE   EIGHTH   STORY 


THE  EVOLUTION  of  EVANGELINE 


VIII 
THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

f  •  ^O  those  who  knew  her  afterward  it 
1  may  seem  an  impossible  condition 
1  of  affairs,  but  it  is  nevertheless  quite 

-^-  true  that  until  the  night  of  the  soph 
omore  reception  she  was  utterly  unheard  of. 
Indeed,  when  her  name  was  read  to  the  chair 
man  of  the  committee  that  looks  up  stray 
freshmen,  yet  uninvited,  and  compels  them 
to  come  in,  the  chairman  refused  to  believe 
that  she  existed. 

"I  don't  believe  there  's  any  such  person," 
she  growled,  "and  if  there  is,  there  's  nobody 
to  take  her.  I  can't  make  sophomores !  Evan- 
geline  Potts, forsooth !  What  a  perfectly  idiotic 
name!  Who's  to  take  her?  Where  does  she 
live?  Where's  the  catalogue?" 

"She  lives  on  West  Street,"  somebody  vol 
unteered,  "and  Bertha  Kitts'  freshman  is  sick, 
or  her  uncle  is  sick,  or  something,  and  Bertha 
says  that  lets  her  out — she  never  wanted  to  go, 
anyhow — and  now  she  's  not  going.  Could  n't 
she  take  her?" 

"Not  going!"  the  chairman  complained 
bitterly.  "If  that's  not  like  B.  Kitts  !  Go  get 
her,  somebody,  and  send  her  after  Evangeline, 
and  tell  her  to  hurry,  too !  Don't  stop  to  argue 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

with  her,  there  is  n't  time.  She  '11  prove  that 
there  is  n't  any  reception,  if  you  let  her.  Just 
get  her  started  and  then  come  right  back.  I 
promised  to  send  three  Bagdads  over,  and  I 
can't  get  but  two." 

The  messenger  paused  at  Miss  Kitts'  door, 
sniffed  scornfully  at  the  sign  which  read: 
"Asleep !  Please  do  not  disturb  under  any  cir 
cumstances  whatever!'*  and  entered  the  room 
abruptly.  Miss  Kitts  was  curled  comfortably 
on  the  window-seat,  with  Plain  "Tales  from  the 
Hills  in  one  hand,  and  The  Works  of  Christo 
pher  Marlowe  in  the  other.  From  these  vol 
umes  she  read  alternately,  and  the  pile  of  cores 
and  seeds  on  the  sill  indicated  a  due  regard  for 
other  than  mental  nutriment.  At  intervals  she 
lifted  her  eyes  from  her  book  to  watch  the  file 
of  girls  loaded  down  with  the  pillows,  screens, 
and  palms  whose  transportation  forms  so  con 
siderable  a  portion  of  the  higher  education  of 
women.  Just  as  the  door  opened  Biscuits  was 
chuckling  gently  at  the  collision  of  a  rubber- 
plant  with  a  Japanese  screen  and  the  conse 
quent  collapse  of  their  respective  bearers,  who, 
even  in  their  downfall,  poured  forth  the  apol 
ogies  and  regrets  that  take  the  place  of  their 
brothers'  less  considerate  remarks  upon  simi 
lar  occasions. 

[  248  ] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

But  her  mirth  was  rudely  checked  by  the 
messenger,  who  closed  the  Marlowe  and  put 
the  Kipling  under  a  pillow. 

"Hurry  up,"  she  remarked  briefly,  "and 
find  Evangeline  Potts  and  tell  her  that  you 
can't  sleep  at  night  till  you  take  her  to  the 
sophomore  reception.  Nobody  urged  her  to 
attend  and  yours  is  sick." 

"She's  not,  either,"  returned  B.  Kitts, 
calmly.  "She's  quite  well,  and — " 

"  Oh,  don't  possum,  Biscuits,  but  get  along. 
Sue's  nearly  wild.  It's  her  uncle,  then;  we 
know  you  were  n't  going,  so  we  know  you  can 
take  her.  Can  I  take  this  couch  cover  along? 
She  's  on  West  Street,  and  I  can't  stop  to  dis 
cuss  it,  but  we  depend  on  you.  Now  do  hurry 
up;  it's  three  already." 

Biscuits  freed  her  mind  to  the  heap  of  pil 
lows  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  for  there  was 
no  one  else  to  hear  her.  Then,  still  grumbling, 
she  put  on  her  golf  cape  and  walked  over  to 
West  Street.  In  a  pessimistic  frame  of  mind 
she  selected  the  most  unattractive  house,  and 
on  inquiring  if  Miss  Evangeline  Potts  lived 
there  and  ascertaining  that  she  did,  she  aston 
ished  the  slatternly  maid  by  a  heartfelt  ejacu 
lation  of" Sherlock  Holmes ! " — adding,  with 
resignation,  "Is  she  in?"  She  was  in,  and  her 
[  249  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

guest  climbed  two  flights  of  stairs  and  knocked 
at  her  door. 

Although  Evangeline  Potts  was  not  fully 
dressed  and  her  room  in  consequent  disorder, 
she  did  not  appear  at  all  embarrassed,  but  fin 
ished  buttoning  her  shirt-waist  and  attached 
her  collar  with  calm  deliberation.  She  was  a 
large,  tall  girl,  with  masses  of  auburn  hair 
strained  back  unbecomingly  from  a  very  frec 
kled  face  and  heaped  in  tight  coils  on  the  top 
of  her  head.  Her  eyes  were  a  rich  red-brown; 
they  struck  you  as  lovely  at  first,  till  after  a 
while  you  discovered  that  they  were  like  glass 
or  running  water,  always  the  same  and  abso 
lutely  expressionless.  She  had  large  hands  and 
feet  and  a  wide,  slow  smile,  and  she  was  dressed 
in  unmitigatedly  bad  taste,  with  sleeves  two 
years  behind  the  style  and  a  skirt  that  could 
have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  at  any  date. 

"I  came  to — to  see  if  you  had  been — if 
you  were  going  to  the  sophomore  reception," 
said  Biscuits.  "I  'm  Miss  Kitts,  Ninety-red, 
and — and  I  Ve  nobody  to  go  with  me  and — 
and  I  shall  be  glad — " 

Biscuits  was  frankly  embarrassed.  She  was 
a  clever  girl,  and  clever  girls  of  her  age  are 
invariably  conscious  and  more  or  less  sensi 
tive.  She  knew  how  she  would  have  felt  if  she 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

had  been  a  freshman  and  a  "left  over":  she 
would  have  resented  such  an  eleventh-hour 
invitation  and  shown  impossibly.  But  if  Evan- 
geline  Potts  bore  any  resentment  it  was  not 
apparent. 

"No/'  she  said  quietly,  "I  haven't  been 
asked  and  I  'd  just  as  lieve  go  with  you." 

"Oh,  that 's  very  nice!"  returned  Biscuits, 
cheerfully,  "then  that's  settled.  And  what 
color  is  your  gown?  I  should  like  to  send 
you  some  flowers." 

"I  'm  not  sure  what  I  will  wear,"  said 
Evangeline;  "what  will  you?" 

"My  dress  is  pink,"  and  Biscuits  carefully 
kept  her  surprise  out  of  the  answer.  Miss 
Potts  did  not  look  like  the  kind  of  girl  to 
possess  more  than  one  evening  gown. 

"How  is  it  made?"  Evangeline  pursued. 
She  was  not  curious,  and  yet  she  was  not  talk 
ing  vaguely  to  cover  any  embarrassment:  she 
merely  desired  information. 

"Oh,  it 's  quite  plain,"  and  Biscuits  rose  to 
go ;  she  was  a  little  bored  and  there  was  noth 
ing  in  Miss  Potts'  room  to  give  any  clew  to 
her  apparently  pointless  character.  Biscuits 
prided  herself  on  her  ability  to  get  at  people 
through  their  belongings,  and  graded  her 
friends  as  possessors  of  Baby  Stuart,  the  Barye 

051  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Lion,  a  Botticelli  Madonna,  or  the  imp  of 
Lincoln  Cathedral. 

But  Evangeline  did  not  rise.  "I  mean,  is 
it  low  neck  and  short  sleeves?'*  she  insisted; 
and  as  Biscuits  nodded,  she  added,  "Does 
everybody  wear  them?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Biscuits,  hastily ;  and  then, 
"That  is,  a  great  many  do.  It 's  not  at  all  nec 
essary,  though :  you  '11  see  plenty  of  girls  with 
out.  Any  light  organdie  will  do  perfectly." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  go,  then,"  remarked 
Evangeline,  calmly;  "my  dress  would  n't  do." 

She  was  not  in  the  least  apologetic  or  pa 
thetic  or  vexed :  she  merely  stated  a  fact,  and 
it  occurred  to  Biscuits,  who  was  somewhat 
susceptible  to  personality,  that  she  meant  pre 
cisely  what  she  said.  Although  absence  from 
the  reception  was  just  what  Biscuits  had  pre 
viously  planned,  she  did  not  care  to  please 
herself  at  this  price,  and  though  Evangeline 
Potts  was  the  last  person  she  would  have  se 
lected  for  her  companion,  and  visions  of  the 
pretty  little  freshman  she  had  had  in  mind  on 
filling  out  her  programme  flashed  before  her 
with  irritating  clearness,  she  smiled  encourage 
ment  and  remonstrated  cheerfully. 

"Oh,  nonsense  !  Why,  anything  will  do,  I 
tell  you  !  You  don't  need  evening  dress  !  One 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

of  my  friends  last  year  had  all  her  clothes 
ruined  by  a  pipe  or  something  that  burst  in 
the  closet  and  she  went  in  white  duck.  And 
she  was  one  of  the  best-dressed  girls  in  the 
class,  really  —  " 

"Yes,  but  I  'm  not/'  interrupted  Evange 
line,  "and  that 's  different.  I  'm  just  as  much 
obliged  to  you  for  asking  me.  Miss  Kitts,  but 
I  have  n't  any  evening  dress  and  I  should  n't 
go  without  one." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Biscuits  that  she  at 
tempted  no  further  argument.  She  knew  that 
Evangeline  Potts  would  not  go  unless  she  had 
an  evening  dress,  and  it  seemed,  somehow, 
imperative  that  she  should  go.  She  realized, 
too,  that  borrowing  was  out  of  the  question. 

"Why  don't  you  cut  one  of  your  dresses 
out?"  she  suggested  after  a  moment.  "Su 
zanne  Endicott  did  that  once  when  she  was 
unexpectedly  asked  to  a  dance  and  had  n't  any 
low  waist  with  her." 

"I  can't  sew,"  Evangeline  replied,  "and  I 
should  n't  know  how  to  cut  it." 

In  proportion  as  she  seemed  convinced  of 
the  impossibility  of  going,  Biscuits  waxed 
more  eager  to  change  her  determination. 

"See  here,"  she  said  suddenly,  "if  I  get 
Suzanne  over  here,  will  you  let  her  cut  one  of 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

your  dresses  out?  I  think  she  would;  she's 
awfully  clever  about  that  sort  of  thing  and 
she  's  very  obliging,  sometimes." 

She  was  prepared  for  any  answer  but  the 
one  forthcoming. 

"Why,  I  don't  care,"  said  Evangeline,  in 
differently,  "only  she  'd  better  hurry,  had  n't 
she?" 

Biscuits  was  by  now  so  impressed  with  the 
vital  necessity  of  getting  Suzanne  that  she  had 
hardly  time  to  wonder  at  her  haste  or  her  ner 
vous  fear  that  the  young  lady  might  not  be  at 
home.  She  trudged  up  the  two  flights  and 
sighed  with  relief  at  the  sound  of  Suzanne's 
mandolin.  Miss  Endicott  was  not  fond  of  the 
mandolin  and  played  it  solely  for  the  purpose 
of  annoying  the  senior  next  door,  who  had  a 
nasty  habit  of  rising  early  to  study,  and  mak 
ing  her  bed  violently,  driving  it  into  the  wall 
just  opposite  Suzanne's  pillow.  When  remon 
strated  with  she  returned  with  calmness  that 
she  had  not  been  accustomed,  when  herself  a 
sophomore,  to  objecl:  to  the  habits  of  seniors, 
and  that  excitable  young  people  who  came  to 
college  for  heaven  knew  what,  had  better  ac 
quaint  themselves  with  habits  of  study  in 
others,  since  that  was  their  only  probable 
source  of  knowledge  of  such  habits. 
l>54] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

Henceforth  it  became  at  once  Suzanne's 
duty  and  pleasure  to  give  what  she  modestly 
called  "little  recitals  from  time  to  time/'  ac 
companied  by  her  mandolin,  which  instru 
ment  maddened  her  neighbor  beyond  endu 
rance.  As  Biscuits  entered  she  was  giving  a 
very  dramatic  rendering  of  the  Jewel  Song 
from  Faust,  and  to  her  guest's  opening  re 
marks  she  replied  only  by  a  melodious  burst 
of  laughter  and  the  arch  assurance : 
"Non,  non!  Ce  n'est  plus  toll 
Ce  rfest  plus  ton  visage  !  " 

Biscuits  obeyed  an  imperative  gesture  and 
held  her  peace  till  the  song  was  over,  when  the 
performer,  with  an  inimitable  grin  at  the  wall, 
laid  down  her  mandolin  and  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"  due  voulez-vous,  ma  plus  chere?  Vous  avez 
Fair—" 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake  talk  English,  Su 
zanne  !  I  want  you  to  come  over  and  cut  out 
Evangeline  Potts'  evening  dress.  Will  you  ? 
She  's  freckled  and  big,  and  she  won't  go  un 
less  you  do.  She  's  got  to  go,  too.  We  can't 
leave  anybody  out.  Will  you  come?" 

"Mais  quavez-vous  donc^  ma  chere  Berthe? 
Est-ce  que  fsuis  couturiere,  moi?" 

"Yes,"  said  Biscuits,  obstinately,  "you  are, 
and  you  know  it.  You  might  be  able  to  make 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

her  look  like  something.  She  's  a  perfect  stick 


now." 


Suzanne  shot  one  of  her  elfish  glances  at  her 
visitor.  It  was  impossible  to  know  what  she 
would  do. 

"  Mais  certainement  vous  avez  assez  de  joue, 
vous!"  she  suggested.  Biscuits  did  not  reply, 
but  watched  the  clock  on  the  desk. 

Suzanne  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Ehbien!"  she  said  cheerfully,  "me  voila 
sage,  Petits-pains,  sage  et  bien  aimable !  Ou  de- 
meure-t-elle  done,  votre  amie?" 

"  Bless  you,  Suzanne,  her  name  's  Evange- 
line  Potts  !  and  she — " 

"  Mon  Dieu !  Evangeline  Potts !  Mais  quelle 
horreur !  Est-ce  que  je  saurais  prononcer  ce  nom 
ajfreux?"  babbled  Suzanne,  while  Biscuits 
found  her  golf  cape  and  hustled  her  out  of 
the  door.  Those  who  relied  too  long  or  too 
securely  on  Miss  Endicott's  moods  were  fre 
quently  disappointed  in  the  end. 

She  had  been  born  in  San  Francisco  and 
brought  up,  alternately,  in  Paris  and  New 
York,  by  her  brother,  a  rising  young  artist, 
whose  views  were  as  broad  as  his  handling,  and 
whose  regret  at  parting  with  her  was  equalled 
only  by  his  firm  determination  to  fulfil  the 
promise  he  had  made  their  mother,  long  dead, 

[256  ] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

to  educate  her  properly.  Only  his  solemn  as 
surance  that  she  should  come  back  every  sum 
mer  if  she  would  behave,  and  finally  conduct 
their  joint  establishment  in  Paris  with  the  An 
gora  for  chaperon  and  the  silky  Skye  for  but 
ler,  kept  her  from  taking  the  first  steamer  back 
from  the  seaport  nearest  the  town  she  had 
hated  consistently  since  she  left  that  scene  of 
delicious  little  suppers  and  jolly  painter-peo 
ple  and  nights  at  the  play  and  ecstatic  exhi 
bitions  when  Brother  was  "on  the  line." 

Now  a  wealthy  young  woman  from  San 
Francisco  who  chooses  to  spend  from  two 
to  four  years  at  an  Eastern  college  is  a  suffi 
ciently  complicated  type  in  herself;  when  she 
has  grown  up  in  studios  and  done  very  much 
as  she  pleases  all  her  life,  she  affords  even 
more  food  for  thought  to  the  student  of  char 
acter. 

People  who  disliked  Suzanne  called  her  un 
principled  and  shallow  and  lazy;  people  who 
admired  her  called  her  brilliant  and  irresponsi 
ble  and  lazy;  people  who  loved  her  called  her 
fascinating  and  spoiled  and  lazy.  She  could 
dance  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind;  she  could  make 
herself  the  most  bewitching  garments  out  of 
nothing  to  speak  of;  she  could  create  a  Japan 
ese  tea-room  with  one  parasol  and  two  fans, 

[  257] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

and  make  a  Persian  interior  from  a  rug,  an 
inlaid  table,  and  a  jewelled  lantern;  she  could 
learn  anything  perfectly  in  half  the  time  it 
would  take  anybody  else  to  get  a  fair  idea  of 
it,  and  she  could,  if  so  minded,  carry  insolence 
to  the  point  of  a  fine  art.  She  was  far  from 
pretty,  but  her  clever  little  brown  face,  with 
its  strange  gray  eyes,  compelled  attention,  and 
her  hair  had  that  rare  silvery  tinge  that  is  an 
individuality  in  itself.  She  was  never  without 
two  or  three  devoted  admirers,  but  her  class 
disliked  her,  and  it  took  all  their  self-control 
to  bear  with  her  to  the  extent  that  was  neces 
sary  in  order  to  profit  by  her  special  abilities. 
She  was  no  more  to  be  depended  upon  than 
a  kitten,  and  her  periodical  bursts  of  rage  ren 
dered  her  unendurable  to  that  large  majority 
which  objeds  to  flaming  eyes  and  torrents  of 
assorted  abuse,  to  say  nothing  of  the  occa 
sional  destruction  of  bric-a-brac. 

And  yet,  to  the  wonder  of  these  righteous 
critics,  Suzanne  kept  her  warm  friends.  There 
was  always  some  amiable  Philistine  to  watch 
her  erratic  movements  with  delighted  awe,  to 
run  on  her  errands,  to  listen  to  her  amazing 
confidences,  and  to  stand  up  for  her  through 
thick  and  thin.  Though  Biscuits  and  her  little 
circle  were,  even  in  their  sophomore  year,  be- 
[a58] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

ginning  to  draw  away  from  her,  vaguely  con 
scious  of  a  necessary  parting  of  the  ways, 
frankly  puzzled  at  the  vagaries  of  this  girl  who 
was  half  a  spoiled  baby,  half  a  woman  of  the 
world,  at  intervals  the  fascination  of  her  per 
sonality  drew  them  back  for  a  while,  and  they 
wondered  that  they  could  have  thought  her 
irresponsible  and  selfish  at  heart. 

To-day,  as  Biscuits  walked  beside  her,  con 
vulsed  by  her  narration  of  a  recent  tussle  with 
the  lady-in-charge — "I  was  only  putting  an 
accordion-pleated  crepe-paper  frieze  above  the 
moulding,  with  thumb  tacks,  and  if  she  had 
kept  out  of  the  way — pig!  'What  do  you 
think  you  came  to  college  for,  Suzanne  ?  Cer 
tainly  not  work  of  this  sort !'  cOh,  no,  Mrs. 
Wylie,  of  course  not.  I  have  long  realized  that 
our  real  object  in  coming  here  was  to  save  the 
maids  trouble ! ' " — she  almost  forgave  her  that 
curt  refusal  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
reception  decorations:  "You  'd  far  better  save 
me  for  the  Prom — I  '11  manage  that,  but  I 
won't  do  both,  vous  savez,  cest  un  peu  trop 
fort!"  she  had  remarked  royally,  and  the  com 
mittee  had  smothered  their  wrath  and  agreed, 
and  cursed  her  afterwards  in  detail,  after  the 
manner  of  practical  young  women  who  are  far 
from  the  short-sightedness  of  allowing  their 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

emotions  to  interfere  with  their  intentions. 
Also,  they  do  not  enjoy  giving  needless  pain 
— on  the  spot.  This  is  one  of  the  sweetest  at 
tributes  of  woman. 

They  knocked  at  Evangeline's  door,  and 
omitting  preliminary  ceremonies,  demanded 
the  dress.  Evangeline  produced  a  dark  red 
cashmere:  Suzanne  shook  her  head.  A  much 
washed  white  lawn  with  what  appeared  to  be 
blue  palm-leaf  fans  scattered  over  it  was  next 
offered  for  consideration:  Suzanne  gasped, 
"  Mon  Dieu  /"  A  gray  gingham  decorated  with 
yellow  spirals  met  her  demand  for  "a  summer 
thing,"  and  caused  the  artist  to  sink  upon  the 
floor  with  a  tragic  groan. 

"Mais,  Evangeline,  vous  me  serrez  le  cceurl 
Cest  horrible!  C'est  effrayant!" 

Evangeline  smiled  politely  but  offered  no 
further  suggestion. 

Suzanne  looked  at  her  searchingly  through 
half-closed  eyes.  "Have  you  any  thing  black?'* 
she  demanded. 

"I  have  a  black  silk,"  said  Evangeline,  and 
she  brought  out  a  heavy,  corded,  ribbon- 
trimmed  affair  with  a  pointed  vest  that  would 
have  been  highly  suitable  for  a  maiden  aunt 
who  had,  as  Suzanne  remarked,  seen  misfor 
tune.  Biscuits  sighed,  but  Suzanne  rose  rapidly 
[  260  ] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

to  her  feet  and  clutched  the  scissors  she  had 
brought  with  her. 

"Enfin!  Cay  esf!"  she  cried.  "Put  it  on 
her,  Biscuits!" 

She  persisted  in  utterly  ignoring  Evange 
line,  or,  more  exactly,  in  treating  her  as  if  she 
had  been  a  doll,  talking  to  her  in  a  pitying 
tone  that  required  no  answer  and  comment 
ing  upon  her  deficiencies  in  a  manner  that 
made  Biscuits  squirm  visibly  and  glance  apolo 
getically  at  the  object  of  such  impersonal  criti 
cism. 

"Perhaps  Miss  Potts  does  n't  care  to  have 
such  a — such  a  nice  dress  cut/'  she  suggested, 
as  Suzanne,  with  what  seemed  a  perfectly  care 
less  gesture,  slashed  at  the  sleeves. 

"Quet  malheur!"  replied  the  artist,  indif 
ferently,  and  Evangeline  added,  "  I  'd  just  as 
lieve." 

With  pursed  lips  Suzanne  snipped  and 
pinched,  while  Biscuits  followed  her  every 
motion  and  Evangeline  silently  adjusted  her 
self  to  each  new  position  as  Suzanne  pulled 
and  pushed  her  arms  and  neck  about.  At 
length  with  a  sudden  motion  Suzanne  stripped 
off  the  detached  sleeves  as  if  they  had  been 
gloves,  and  snatched  away  the  top  of  the  scant 
middle-aged  waist  with  a  quick  movement. 

[  261  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

"Voila!  "  she  said,  and  Biscuits  gasped:  for 
Evangeline  Potts  was  a  transformed  creature. 
Her  arms  and  neck  were  ivory  white  and  as 
soft  and  smooth  as  satin;  the  lovely  curves  of 
her  throat  and  shoulders  could  never  have 
been  guessed  at  under  the  stiff  black  seams 
of  the  waist. 

Suzanne  patted  her  arms  appreciatively.  "I 
might  have  known  it,  with  that  hair  and  those 
freckles!"  she  murmured.  Then,  calmly,  to 
Evangeline:  "The  trouble  with  your  kind  is, 
you  never  have  any  eyebrows  and  your  eye 
lids  get  red,  n'est-ce pas?" 

She  went  a  few  steps  back  from  the  mo 
tionless  figure  and  stood  silent. 

"You  could  twist  a  black  scarf,"  suggested 
Biscuits,  hastily.  Suzanne  waved  her  hand. 

"Tu  me  degoutes,  a  la  fin  I"  she  said  coldly; 
"Get  your  cape  on!"  Then,  to  Evangeline: 
"  Undo  your  hair ! "  As  the  thick  coil  tumbled 
over  her  shoulders,  the  diredress  of  ceremo 
nies  deliberately  selected  a  light  inner  tress 
and  snipped  it  off. 

.  "Take  it  down  town  and  match  it — in  vel 
vet  if  you  can,  in  silk  if  you  can't,"  she  com 
manded.  "And  get  enough,  get  two,  three 
yards!" 

"But  will  Miss  Potts  want  to  spend — " 

262 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

Biscuits  looked  doubtfully  at  the  white-armed 
goddess  who  contemplated  herself  quietly  in 
the  glass.  It  was  impossible  to  know  what  she 
was  thinking;  she  was  apparently  quite  accus 
tomed  to  strangers  who  dressed  her  in  low- 
cut  evening  dresses  and  snipped  her  hair  and 
spent  her  money. 

Suzanne  stamped  her  foot.  "  Va-t-en ! "  she 
cried,  and  then,  with  an  irresistible  mimicry 
of  Evangeline,  "She  Vjust  as  lieve!" 

When  Biscuits  returned  with  a  great  strip 
of  tawny  velvet,  it  was  taken  from  her  at  the 
door,  and  she  was  instructed  to  get  from  Su 
zanne's  room  her  make-up  box  and  the  gold 
powder  that  had  so  unaccountably  disappeared 
after  the  play  last  week. 

"They  borrowed  the  eyebrow  pencil  and 
that,  the  night  of  the  dress  rehearsal,  and  they 
swore  to  bring  them  back — beasts!  What 
have  I  to  call  my  own?  Rien!  Never,  never, 
never  will  I  lend  anything  again !  II  faut  faire 
un  fin^  vraiment!" 

It  was  a  long  hunt  for  Biscuits,  and  more 
than  once  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  re 
fused  to  go  on  the  decorating  committee  with 
a  view  to  escaping  just  such  wearisome  trot 
ting  about.  When  she  handed  the  box  to  Su 
zanne  and  suggested  that  the  result  should  be 

C  263  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

extremely  pleasing  to  justify  such  toil,  the  red 
spot  in  the  artist's  either  cheek  and  her  wide- 
opened  eyes  indicated  the  happy  absorption 
to  which  no  effort  seems  worthy  of  mention. 
Biscuits,  not  allowed  to  enter  the  room,  sat 
wearily  on  the  stairs,  longing  to  go  home  but 
unwilling  to  abandon  Suzanne.  It  was  very 
nearly  six,  and  she  was  not  dressed;  she  had 
left  the  necessary  perusal  of  'The  Works  of 
Christopher  Marlowe  till  late  in  the  day,  think 
ing  to  devote  the  evening  to  it;  she  took  little 
interest  in  Evangeline  Potts,  and  she  did  not 
care  much  for  dancing. 

But  for  the  moment  her  resentment  van 
ished  when  Suzanne  called  her  in  and  she  be 
held  the  objecl  of  her  labors  under  the  gaslight 
in  a  carefully  darkened  room.  Her  milk-white 
shoulders  rose  magnificently  from  folds  of 
auburn  velvet  that  her  wonderful  hair  re 
peated  in  loose  waves  about  her  face  and  a 
great  mass  low  on  her  neck.  Her  long,  round 
arms  gleamed  against  the  black  of  her  skirt 
and  melted  into  the  glow  of  her  velvet  girdle. 
In  the  white  light  her  freckles  paled  and  her 
eyes  turned  wholly  brown,  and  said  myste 
rious  things  that  could  never  by  any  possi 
bility  have  occurred  to  her. 

"Tiens!  J'ai  eu  la  main  heureuse,  rfest-ce 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

pas?  Vous  la  trouvez  charmante?"  said  Su 
zanne,  turning  her  about  as  if  she  had  been 
a  dummy  and  indicating  her  opinion  that  the 
back  view  was,  if  anything,  more  satisfying 
than  the  front. 

"You  're  a  genius,  Suzanne!  She  's  simply 
stunning!  How  did  you  do  it?" 

Suzanne  smiled. "  C 'est pas  grand'  chose"  she 
said  modestly.  But  she  looked  contentedly 
at  Evangeline  and  loosened  her  hair  a  little. 
"Now  remember,  don't  put  on  those  hideous 
rings,"  she  commanded,  "and  don't  wear  any 
thing  on  your  head.  Do  you  dance  well?" 
she  added. 

Evangeline  hesitated.  "I  dance  a  little," 
she  replied,  "pretty  well,  I  guess." 

Suzanne  promptly  encircled  her  waist  and 
whistled  a  waltz.  After  a  few  turns  she  stopped. 

"You  dance  very  badly,"  she  said  encour 
agingly.  "If  I  were  you,  I  'd  sit  out  most  of 
them.  You  can  say  it  bores  you  —  they  '11  be 
glad  enough.  Besides,  you  might  get  red  and 
then  you  'd  not  be  pretty.  Now  don't  move 
about  much,  and  when  Miss  Kitts  brings  you 
the  white  roses  put  them  just  where  I  told 
you." 

"Very  well,"  said  Evangeline,  and  as  the 
other  two  prepared  to  go  she  gave  them  one 

[265  3 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

of  her  long,  slow  smiles.  "I  'm  much  obliged 
to  you  both,  I  'm  sure,"  she  said;  "you  Ve 
been  very  kind." 

"  Adicu>mon  enfant — a  plus  tard!"  and  Su 
zanne  seized  the  door  knob.  She  turned  in 
the  door  and  threw  a  quick,  piercing  look 
at  her  handiwork.  "If  you  take  my  advice, 
you  '11  never  put  on  that  dreadful  shirt-waist 
again,  tres  chere"  she  said  lightly.  "You'll 
spoil  all  this  splendor,  if  you  do.  Give  it 
away — or,  no,  don't!  you  'd  corrupt  the  taste 
of  the  poor — burn  it  up,  and  the  others  with 
it,  and  get  a  black  suit  and  a  black  silk  waist 
and  wear  a  big  white  tie,  if  you  like.  And  a 
white  tarn — one  of  those  pussy  ones.  Wear 
one  color — c'est  plus  distingue — and  if  you 
want  a  big  black  hat  with  plumes,  I  '11  make 
it  for  you.  Et  maintenant,  regarde-toi  dans  la 
glace  I" 

With  this  invocation  they  left  her,  and  Bis 
cuits,  learning  that  Suzanne  had  exhausted 
her  energy  and  proposed  to  inform  her  fresh 
man  that  she  was  ill  and  unable  to  attend  the 
reception,  became  possessed  by  the  idea  that 
she  was  responsible  for  this  particular  illus 
tration  of  the  artistic  temperament,  and  went 
without  her  dinner  to  hunt  up  a  substitute. 
She  wasted  no  time  in  argument  with  Suzanne, 
[  266  ] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

who  lay  luxuriously  on  her  couch  pillows  with 
her  hands  under  her  head,  and  planned  cos 
tumes  for  Evangeline  Potts  all  the  evening, 
but  tramped  angrily  over  the  campus  till  quar 
ter  of  seven  to  find  an  unattached  sophomore, 
forgetting  that  Evangeline's  flowers  were  yet 
to  be  purchased.  Coming  up  with  them  in  her 
hand,  a  little  later,  she  was  forced  to  stop  and 
explain  to  the  substitute  the  intricacies  of  Su 
zanne's  programme,  breaking  off  abruptly  to 
beat  her  breast  like  the  wedding  guest,  for  she 
heard  the  loud  bassoon  and  fled  to  her  room, 
tearing  her  evening  dress  hopelessly  and  com 
pleting  her  toilette  on  the  stairs.  The  substi 
tute  suffered  from  a  violent  headache  as  the 
result  of  her  unexpected  exertions,  and  the 
little  freshman  cried  herself  to  sleep,  for  she 
had  dreamed  for  nights  of  going  with  Suzanne, 
whom  she  admired  to  stupefaction. 

But  of  all  this  Evangeline  Potts  knew  lit 
tle,  and,  it  may  be,  cared  less.  She  was  one  of 
the  successes  of  the  evening,  and  her  few  re 
marks  were  quoted  diligently.  She  could  have 
danced  dozens  of  extras,  had  so  many  been 
possible,  and  Biscuits  was  considered  to  have 
displayed  more  than  her  ordinary  cleverness  in 
procuring  a  creature  so  picturesque  and  dis 
tinguished. 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

This  did  not  surprise  her,  nor  did  she  partic 
ularly  resent  being  pointed  out  by  more  than 
one  freshman  as  "the  sophomore  that  took  that 
stunning  Miss  Potts";  but  her  amazement 
was  undisguised,  the  next  morning  but  one, 
at  the  sight  of  Evangeline  walking  out  from 
chapel  with  a  prominent  junior,  the  glamor  of 
the  evening  gone,  it  is  true,  her  face  some 
what  heavy  and  undeniably  freckled,  but  nev 
ertheless  an  Evangeline  transformed.  From 
her  fluffy  white  cap  to  the  hem  of  her  digni 
fied  black  skirt  she  was  the  realization  of  Su 
zanne's  parting  suggestions,  and  the  distinct 
intention  of  her  costume  had  its  full  effect. 
She  was  far  more  impressive  than  the  jolly 
little  short-skirted  junior,  whose  curly  yellow 
hair  paled  beside  the  dark  richness  of  Evan- 
geline's  massive  coils,  and  Biscuits,  remember 
ing  that  she  had  called  her  "a  perfect  stick," 
marvelled  inwardly. 

She  went  to  call  on  her  a  little  later,  but 
Evangeline  was  not  in;  and  feeling  that  her 
duty  was  done,  Miss  Kitts  gave  no  further 
thought  to  what  she  considered  an  essentially 
uninteresting  person,  but  devoted  herself  to 
a  study  of  the  campus  house  into  which  she 
had  moved  only  that  year. 

She  saw  Evangeline  very  rarely  after  that, 
[  ,68  ] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

except  at  the  dances  and  plays,  where  her 
white  shoulders  framed  in  auburn  velvet  ap 
peared  very  regularly.  Once,  happening  to  sit 
beside  her,  she  began  a  conversation,  but  she 
could  not  remember  afterward  that  Miss  Potts 
said  anything  but,  "Yes,  indeed,"  or,  "Yes,  I 
think  so,  too."  Her  surprise  was  therefore 
great  when,  on  hearing  the  result  of  the  sopho 
more  elections  the  next  fall,  and  audibly  com 
menting  on  the  oddity  of  Miss  Evangeline 
Potts  in  the  position  of  sophomore  president, 
she  was  indignantly  assured  by  a  loyal  mem 
ber  of  that  class  that  the  vote  was  almost 
unanimous  and  that  she  was  one  of  the  ablest 
girls  in  the  class. 

Even  this  she  did  not  consider  long,  for  the 
sophomore  presidency  is  the  least  important 
of  the  four;  but  when  among  the  first  five 
sophomores  to  be  triumphantly  ushered  into 
Phi  Kappa  Psi  she  was  asked  to  consider  the 
name  of  Evangeline  Potts,  she  remonstrated. 

"  But  she  's  not  clever  !  She  's  not  half  so 
bright  as  lots  we  have  n't  got !"  she  objected. 
"Why  do  we  want  her?" 

"She's  no  prod,  of  course,  but  she's  a 
prominent  girl  and  class  president,"  was  the 
answer,  "and  she's  really  very  strong,  I  think 
— they  say  she  does  fair  work,  and  everybody 

[  269  j 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

but  you  wants  her.  Do  you  really  disapprove 
of  her?" 

"Oh,  no  !"  said  Biscuits,  and  watched  Miss 
Potts  with  interest.  She  received  her  congratu 
lations  quietly,  with  a  manner  that  made  one 
wonder  if  they  had  been  quite  in  good  taste, 
and  adled  altogether  as  if  she  had  fully  ex 
pected  to  enter  the  society  with  Ursula  Wyck- 
offand  Dodo  Bent.  The  senior  class  president 
took  her  out  of  chapel  at  the  head  of  the  file, 
with  a  bunch  of  violets  as  big  as  her  two  fists 
pinned  to  her  belt,  and  Biscuits  was  asked  to  a 
supper  in  her  honor  in  the  campus  house  she 
had  recently  entered. 

One  of  the  other  guests  was  the  little  fresh 
man  Biscuits  had  first  asked  to  the  sophomore 
reception,  herself  a  sophomore  now,  and  one 
of  Phi  Kappa's  first  five. 

"Was  your  class  surprised  at  the  elections?" 
asked  Biscuits,  glancing  half  unconsciously  at 
Evangeline.  The  sophomore  smiled  gently, 
with  a  hardly  perceptible  recognition  of  Bis 
cuits'  look. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied;  "we  expedted  them 
— except,  perhaps,  one  or  two."  Her  polite 
little  blush  showed  her  traditional  surprise  at 
her  own  success,  and  the  junior  gave  the 
equally  traditional  deprecating  smile. 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

"Who  's  the  other?"  she  inquired  bluntly. 
The  sophomore  was  taken  off  her  guard  and 
glanced  again  at  Evangeline. 

"Why,  some  of  us  did  n't  exactly  see — we 
think  Alison  Greer's  terribly  bright — we 
did  n't  expect — and  yet,  I  don't  know!  After 
all,  I  think  perhaps  we  were  n't  so  awfully 
surprised!" 

"Now,  I  wonder  if  you  really  were  n't,  or  if 
you're  lying?"  thought  Biscuits,  and  then, 
remembering  suddenly,  "but  that's  just  the 
way  we  all  talked  last  year  about  Evelyn 
Lyon!" 

That  summer  Evangeline  spent  in  France 
with  Suzanne,  who  informed  Biscuits  before 
they  sailed  that  though  she  could  n't  find  out 
anything  about  Miss  Potts'  parents,  she  had 
learned  of  the  existence  of  a  well-to-do  uncle 
in  New  Hampshire  who  intended  leaving  quite 
a  little  money  to  his  uncommunicative  niece 
— he  had  given  her  the  money  to  go  abroad. 

"She  planned  it  all  out,  and  asked  to  go 
with  me,  and  I  could  n't  well  refuse,"  said 
Suzanne,  "though  Brother  will  be  wild  with 
rage — he  hates  women  who  are  not  clever: 
il  est  un  pen  exigeant^  monfrere." 

By  senior  year  Biscuits  had  very  nearly  lost 
track  of  Suzanne,  who  left  the  campus  and 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

spent  most  of  her  time  sketching.  Brother 
had  shown  some  pen-and-ink  portraits  of  hers 
to  a  great  critic,  who  had  declared  that  Brother 
had  by  no  means  exhausted  the  family  genius, 
and  Suzanne,  heavily  bribed,  had  returned  to 
her  last  year  of  durance.  The  day  of  the  Jun 
ior  Prom  Biscuits  received  a  very  French  lit 
tle  note  inviting  her  to  "une  premiere  vue" 
and  with  the  full  expectation  of  a  pen-and-ink 
collection,  she  confronted  Evangeline,  glori 
ous  in  white  satin  and  gold  passementerie,  with 
an  amber  chain  and  a  great  amber  comb  in  her 
hair. 

"Vous  rappelez-vous  cette  premiere  fois, 
hein?"  Suzanne  asked,  with  a  grin.  "  Ca  date 
de  loin,,  nyest-ce  pas?"  Adding  cheerfully, 
" L'onc/e  est  mort  et  nous  avons  une  jolie  dot!" 

Biscuits  was  not  surprised  to  learn  that 
Ursula  Wyckoff  had  moved  heaven  and  earth 
to  get  her  cousin  from  Columbia  for  Evange- 
line's  escort;  she  had  heard  how  Nan  Gillatt 
actually  took  her  own  brother  to  the  Glee 
Club  concert  because  Evangeline  preferred  the 
youth  selected  by  Nan  for  herself,  and  she 
remembered  how  she  had  hunted  from  shop  to 
shop  for  the  velvet  that  matched  that  auburn 
hair.  It  was  not  that  Evangeline  insisted:  she 
did  not  beg  favors.  But  her  habit  of  receiving 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

a  proposition  in  silence  filled  one  with  an  irre 
sistible  desire  to  better  one's  offer,  and  even 
the  improvement  seemed  poor  in  the  calm 
scrutiny  of  those  red-brown  eyes. 

"What  I  can't  see  is,  who  pushes  her!" 
mused  Biscuits. 

"Who?  who?"  repeated  Suzanne.  "Par 
exemple!  Why,  she  herself,  of  course!  Who 
else?" 

"  But  how? "  Biscuits  persisted.  "  Now  Eve 
lyn  made  up  to  everybody  so — she  earned 
her  way,  heaven  knows!  And  Kate  Ackley 
was  a  sort  of  legacy  —  her  sister's  reputation 
started  her  and  she  was  rushed  so  freshman 
year  that  you  could  n't  blame  her  for  failing 
to  realize  what  a  fool  she  really  is.  And  the 
Underbills'  coming  in  with  the  crowd  they 
did,  explains  them.  But  nobody  rushes  Evan- 
geline  particularly — " 

" C'esf  bien  dommage!"  Suzanne  interrupted 
with  mock  sympathy.  "Seule  au  mondel  Don't 
be  an  idiot,  Biscuits,  we  all  rush  her,  and 
we  shall — till  she  begins  to  see  what  a  bluff 
she's  making!  The  beauty  of  Evangeline  is, 
that  she  fools  herself — maisparfaitement!  She 
really  thinks  she's  somebody — voila  tout  I" 

"I  suppose  that's  it,"  assented  Biscuits, 
thoughtfully. 

[  273  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

"Ursula,"  Suzanne  remarked  oracularly, 
"is  so  anxious  to  please  that  sometimes  she 
does  n't,  and  even  Susan  the  Great  has  her  lit 
tle  plans — mats  out!  But  Mile.  Potts  does  n't 
care  a  sou.  It 's  all  one  to  her,  vous  savez,  she 
agrees  with  all ;  and  what 's  the  result  ?  'Tout  le 
monde  I* admire!  C'est  toujours  comme  fa!" 

For  some  reason  or  other  her  large  and 
shapely  figure  was  the  most  prominent  feature 
of  Biscuits'  Commencement.  She  was  a  junior 
usher,  of  course,  and  in  aisles  or  under  lan 
terns,  at  Phi  Kappa  Farewell  or  Glee  Club 
promenade,  her  calm,  heavy  face  and  delib 
erate  movements  attracted  Biscuits'  eye. 

The  mob  had  not  appealed  to  Miss  Kitts 
as  a  desirable  method  of  dramatic  debut,  and 
she  was,  consequently,  one  of  the  few  seniors 
in  the  audience  on  the  night  of  her  class  dra 
matics.  Between  the  acts  she  wandered  down 
to  the  door,  and  caught  a  bit  of  conversation 
among  a  group  of  ushers. 

"And  all  Ursula's  friends  were  in  the  mid 
dle  aisle,  and  she  begged  Evangeline  to 
change,  but  she  would  n't.  Ursula  could  have 
had  a  seat  then,  with  Dick  Fosdick's  people, 
and  she  was  frightfully  tired,  but  Evangeline 
would  n't." 

"Pooh!  did  you  expect  she  would?" 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVANGELINE 

"Oh,  no!  She's  terribly  selfish,  of  course, 
but  you  'd  think,  considering  how  nice  Ursu 
la's  been  to  her — " 

"Oh,  my  dear  !  As  if  that  made  any  differ 
ence  to  Evange — sh,  here  she  is  ! — What 
stunning  violets,  Evangeline  !  That  Js  your 
Prom  dress,  is  n't  it  ?  It 's  terribly  sweet !" 

Evangeline  smiled  and  sank  into  the  seat 
a  little  freshman  promptly  and  adoringly  va 
cated  for  her,  and  Biscuits  went  back  to  her 
place. 

Suzanne  stopped  in  America  that  summer, 
and  with  the  promise  of  five  subsequent  years 
in  Paris,  prolonged  her  stay  till  the  following 
June.  She  went  so  far  as  to  come  up  to  North 
ampton  to  her  class  reunion,  assuring  her 
friends  that  she  had  forgotten  a  few  oppro 
brious  epithets  in  her  final  anathema  and  had 
returned  to  deliver  them  in  person. 

As  they  stood  in  the  crowd  on  Ivy  Day, 
watching  the  snowy  procession,  the  cameras 
suddenly  snapped  rapidly  all  about  them  and 
an  excited  voice  murmured:  "There  she  is! 
Is  n't  she  grand?  My  dear,  she  had  eleven  in 
vitations  for  the  junior  entertainment!  Mar 
tha  Sutton  took  her — "  Evangeline  Potts 
walked  slowly  by. 

"And  you  ought  to  have  seen  her  Com- 

C  275  ] 


SMITH  COLLEGE   STORIES 

mencement  flowers !  She  had  a  bathtub  full 
— literally!  She  wouldn't  take  'em  out  and 
the  tub  could  n't  be  used — " 

"She's  president  of  Phi  Kapp,  I  hear," 
said  Biscuits. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Suzanne,  "and  on  the 
dramatics  committee,  you  know.  She  has  lots 
of  friends." 

"I  wonder  why,"  said  Biscuits,  absently. 

"'Sais  pas!  They're  clever  girls,  too.  She 
knows  the  pick  of  the  class — but  then,  she 
always  did,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  she'll  marry  money,"  mused 
Biscuits,  the  student  of  human  nature. 

"Dutout!"  Suzanne  returned,  "she  won't 
care  about  that.  It 's  clever  people  she  wants 
— she  always  went  with  the  clever  ones:  elk 
aime  les gens  d'  esprit.  She  's  got  money  enough; 
she  '11  marry  some  clever  man  who  knows  the 
best  people  and  will  make  her  one  of  them — 
vous  r  verrez ! " 

And  the  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  for  Evan- 
geline  very  shortly  married  Walter  Endicott, 
the  well-known  artist,  whose  portrait  of  her 
in  white  and  gold  attracted  so  much  attention 
at  a  very  recent  Salon. 


THE    NINTH    STORY 


AT  COMMENCEMENT 


IX 
AT   COMMENCEMENT 


DRAMATICS 

IT  is  the  Saturday  night  performance  of 
the  senior  play.  The  curtain  is  about  to 
rise.  The  aisles  and  back  of  the  house  are 
packed  with  people  struggling  for  seats; 
alumna  and  under-class  girls  who  have  admis 
sion  tickets  only,  are  preparing  to  sit  on  all  the 
steps;  the  junior  ushers  are  hopelessly  trying  to 
keep  back  the  press.  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  the 
orchestra  is  playing,  judging  from  the  motion  of 
arms  and  instruments.  The  lights  are  suddenly 
lowered  and  the  curtain  rises.  The  struggle  for 
seats  at  the  back,  the  expostulations  of  the  ushers, 
and  the  comments  of  the  alumna  and  students, 
who  have  seen  the  play  twice  before  and  conse 
quently  do  not  feel  the  need  of  close  attention,  com 
pletely  drown  the  first  words  of  the  scene. 

Back  of  house.  Large  and  fussy  mother,  look 
ing  daggers  at  the  sophomores  squatting  beside 
her,  giggling  at  the  useless  efforts  of  a  small 
worried  usher  to  prevent  a  determined  woman, 
escorted  by  her  apologetic  husband,  from  prancing 
down  into  the  orchestra  circle;  and  unimportant 
senior. 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Mother.  What  ?  What  ?  Who  is  this,  Emma  ? 
Where  are  we? 

Emma.  That's  Viola,  Mother.  She's  just 
been  shipwrecked,  you  know. 

Mother.  Oh,  she  's  the  heroine.  She  's  the 
best  actor,  then? 

Emma.  Dear  me,  no.  Malvolio's  'way  by 
the  best.  And  then  Sir  Toby  and  Maria — 
they're  awfully  good — you'll  see  them  pretty 
soon  now.  I  don't  care  for  Viola  much.  She 
tries  to  imitate  Ada  Rehan — 

Curtain  drops  on  First  Scene. 

TJ"  Orchestra  Circle.  Handsome,  portly  father, 
exceptionally  well  set  up,  his  wife,  and  head  of 
department. 

Father,  with  enthusiasm.  By  Jove !  Is  that 
a  girl,  really?  You  don't  say  so!  Well,  well! 
Sir  Toby,  eh?  Well,  well!  And  who's  the 
little  girl?  Maria?  Did  you  ever  see  anything 
much  prettier  than  she  is,  Alice? 

His  Wife.  She  's  very  charming,  certainly. 

Head  of  Department.  She's  about  the  best 
of  them.  A  very  clever  girl.  But  you  ought  to 
see  Malvolio !  I  don't  care  for  Sir  Andrew — 

Father.  Alice,  look  at  him!  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  so  odd?  Now  I  call  that  clever 
—  I  must  say  I  call  that  clever!  To  think 

[  280] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

that 's  a  girl — well,  well !  See  him  shiver,  Al 
ice!  Capital,  capital!  Do  they  do  this  them 
selves — costumes  and  acting  and  ideas  and 
all? 

Head  of  Department.  They  make  the  cos 
tumes,  I  believe,  most  of  them.  Then  they 
have  a  trainer  at  the  last.  It 's  amazing  to  me, 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  their  men's  parts  are  as 
a  rule,  considering  the  proportionate  difficulty, 
you  know,  much  better  than  their  women's. 
Comedy  parts,  at  that.  I  Ve  never  seen  but 
one  woman's  part  really  well  done. 

Father.  Really?  Now  why  do  you  suppose, 
sir,  that  is  so? 

Head  of  Department.  I  can't  say.  But  they're 
very  artificial  women,  as  a  rule.  Overtrained, 
perhaps. 

^f  A  group  of  last  year's  graduates  and  two  ush 
ers  on  the  platform  of  the  fire-escape  upstairs. 

First  Graduate.  I  suppose  you  're  nearly 
dead,  poor  child? 

First  Usher.  Heavens!  I  never  slaved  so  in 
my  life!  Did  you  see  Ethel  Williams'  mother 
insist  on  going  down  into  her  seat  ?  I  don't  see 
how  people  can  be  so  rude. 

First  Graduate.  Going  better,  to-night,  is  n't 
it? 

[281  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

First  Usher.  Goodness,  yes!  I  think  it's  fine. 
Don't  you?  Is  n't  Dick  simply  fine!  There  she 
is !  C  A  burst  of  applause  as  Malvolio  and  Olivia 
enter.) 

Second  Usher.  Do  you  know,  they  say  that 
Kate  Ackley  thinks  it's  half  for  her! 

Second  Graduate.  Not  really? 

Second  Usher.  Yes,  really.  She  is  stunning, 
there  's  no  doubt. 

Second  Graduate.  Oh,  yes,  she  's  stunning. 
Is  that  her  own  dress? 

Second  Usher.  Yes.  Her  aunt  gave  it  to  her. 
It's  liberty  satin.  But  she's  a  stick,  just  the 
same.  Do  you  like  Viola  ? 

Second  Graduate,  parrying.  She  looks  very 
well.  I  was  rather  surprised  she  got  it,  though. 

Second  Usher.  You  know  Mr.  Clark  wanted 
her  for  Sir  Andrew,  and  she  would  n't.  He  was 
very  angry,  and  so  was  the  class.  They  don't 
care  for  Ethel  at  all.  But  it  was  Viola  or  noth 
ing.  She  's  seen  it  four  times  and  she  thinks 
she  knows  it  all,  they  say.  I  do  think  she  does 
some  parts  very  well  indeed. 

First  Usher.  Oh,  Miss  Underbill,  is  n't 
Viola  grand  ?  Don't  you  think  she  's  fine  ? 

Second  Graduate,  sweetly.  Yes,  indeed.  She 
looks  so  cunning  in  that  short  skirt ! 
Curtain  falls  on  First  Att. 

282 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

^[  'Two  fathers  standing  at  back. 

First  Father ',  smiling  affably.  A  great  sight, 
I  assure  you,  sir !  All  these  young  girls,  and 
parents,  and  friends — a  proud  moment  for 
them  !  And  how  well  they  do  !  That  one 
that  takes  the  part  of  Malvolio,  now,  that 
Miss  Fosdick — pretty  smart  girl,  now,  is  n't 
she? 

Second  Father.  That  's  my  daughter,  sir. 

First  Father.  Well,  well !  I  expect  you  're 
pretty  pleased.  You  ought  to  be. 

Second  Father,  confidentially.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I 
never  believed  she  had  it  in  her,  never !  Her 
mother  and  I  were  perfectly  dumfounded — 
perfectly.  I  don't  know  where  she  got  it  from; 
certainly  not  from  me.  And  her  mother 
could  n't  take  part  in  tableaux,  even,  she  got 
so  nervous. 

First  Father.  Just  so,  just  so  !  Now,  I  want 
to  tell  you  something,  Mr. — Mr.  Fosdick. 
These  colleges  for  women  are  a  great  thing, 
sir,  a  great  thing !  You  take  my  daughter. 
When  she  came  up  here,  she  was  as  shy  and 
bashful  and  helpless  as  a  girl  that 's  an  only 
child  could  possibly  be.  Could  n't  trust  her 
self  an  inch  alone.  Never  went  away  from 
home  alone  in  her  life.  Look  at  her  now  ! 
She  's  head  of  this  whole  committee:  you  may 

[  283  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

have  noticed  their  names  on  the  back  of  the 
programme.  Costumes,  scenery,  music,  lights, 
stage  properties,  scene  shifting — all  in  her 
hands,  as  you  might  say  !  I  slipped  up  to  the 
stage  door,  and  I  begged  the  young  woman 
there  to  let  me  step  in  and  see  her  a  moment. 
Girls  do  it  all,  you  know  !  She  was  on  police 
man  duty  there.  But  she  let  me  in  and  I  just 
peeked  at  Mary,  bossing  the  whole  job,  as  you 
might  say!  It  was  "put  this  here"  and  "put 
that  there"  and  taking  hold  of  the  end  and 
dragging  it  herself,  and  answering  this  one's 
questions  and  giving  that  one  orders  —  I  tell 
you,  I  could  n't  believe  it !  Short  skirt  and 
shirt-waist,  note-book  in  her  hand — Lord!  I 
wished  I  had  her  up  at  the  office  with  me! 

Second  Father.  Then  you  're  Miss  Mollie 
Vanderveer's  father? 

First  Father.  Yes,  sir,  James  L.  Vander- 
veer. 

Second  Father.  Pleased  to  meet  you.  'Lida 
often  speaks  of  her.  She  said  to  her  mother 
and  me  to-night  just  as  she  went  down  to  "be 
made  up,"  as  they  call  it,  that  Mollie  was  a 
brick  and  no  mistake.  It  seems  she  's  doing 
two  girls'  work  to-night. 

First  Father.  Yes,  one  of  the  committee  is 
sick.  After  all,  it 's  a  pretty  hard  strain,  it 

[  284  ]  ' 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

seems  to  me.  Mary  's  pretty  strong,  but  she 
said  to  me  yesterday  that  if  there  had  been 
another  performance — 

Curtain  rises  on  Second  Aft. 

^f  Lobby.  College  physician  and  junior  usher. 

Physician.  Will  you  just  step  over  to  the 
drug  store  across  the  street  and  get  me  some 
brandy — quickly,  please  ? 

Usher.  Oh,  certainly,  Dr.  Leach  ! 

Physician.  Here,  child,  stop  !  Put  on  a  cloak 
— are  you  crazy  ? 

Usher.  But  I  'm  quite  warm,  Dr.  Leach  ! 

Physician.  Put  on  a  cloak  !  With  your  neck 
and  arms  bare !  It 's  damp  as  a  well  outside. 
(Usher  runs  out.) 

A  ubiquitous  member  of  the  faculty  suddenly 
appears.  What 's  the  matter  ?  Anybody  sick  ? 

Physician.  Oh,  no  !  Not  much.  Miss  Jack 
son  was  resting  in  her  dressing-room  and 
somebody  leaned  over  the  sill  and  spoke  to 
her — you  know  she  's  on  the  ground  floor. 
She  's  quite  nervous,  and  she  got  a  little  hys 
terical — slight  chill.  My  brandy  was  all  out, 
so  I — Oh,  thank  you!  (Usher  disappears 
breathless.) 

Ubiquitous  Member  of  Faculty,  gloomily.  I  Ve 
always  said  there  should  be  understudies — 

[  285  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

always.  What  will  they  do  without  their  Viola? 
It 's  a  ridiculous  risk — 

Physician,  hastily.  But  Miss  Jackson  is  all 
right,  or  will  be  as  soon  as  I  get — yes,  I  'm 
coming!  Oh,  nonsense!  —  She's  all  right: 
there  's  no  need  for  an  understudy,  I  assure 
you!  —  No,  keep  them  all  out!  No,  she  has 
enough  flowers  in  there  now !  Yes,  keep  peo 
ple  away  from  the  window  ! 

^[  Curtain  rises  on  'Third  Scene. 

Group  of  ushers  collapsed  on  stairs  leading  to 
gallery. 

Nan.  (White  organdie  over  rose  pink  silk; 
rose  ribbons.)  Oh,  girls,  I  'm  nearly  dead  ! 

Ursula.  (Black  net  over  elecJric  blue  satin; 
silver  belt  and  high  silver  comb;  black  gloves.) 
There 's  one  good  thing,  we  're  downstairs 
to-night.  Last  night  I  got  so  dizzy  hopping 
up  and  down  those  steps — 

Leonora.  (Yellow  liberty  silk  cut  very  low; 
gold  fillet;  somewhat  striking  Greek  effecJ.)  Oh, 
what  do  you  think  I  just  did  ?  I  was  so  tired  I 
stumbled  just  behind  the  orchestra  circle  (af 
ter  I  'd  shooed  that  funny  woman  out  of  three 
seats)  and  I  fell  almost  flat !  And  the  nicest 
man  helped  me  up  and  made  me  take  his  seat, 
and  who  do  you  think  it  was  Pit  was  Mr.  Fos- 
[286] 


AT    COMMENCEMENT 

dick.  He  went  and  stood  back,  and  I  sat  a 
long  time  then.  Was  n't  he  ducky  ? 

Sally.  (White  dimity  with  green  ribbons;  a 
yard  or  more  of  red-gold  hair ;  babyish  face. ) 
Where  's  your  own  seat,  dear  ? 

Esther.  (Pale  blue  silk  with  long  rope  of  mock 
pearls.)  Oh,  Piggy's  given  it  to  her  little 
friend,  as  usual !  It 's  a  great  thing  to  have  — 
('The  door  swings  open,  and  the  affors*  voices  are 
heard:  "There  dwelt  a  man  in  Babylon,  lady, 
lady!"  Another  usher  comes  out.) 

Nan.  How  'd  the  song  go  ?  Better  ? 

Usher.  Oh,  grand !  They  made  her  do  the 
second  verse  again.  Miss  Selbourne  says  that 
she  's  the  best  all  'round  clown  they  've  ever 
had. 

Sally.  Oh,  does  she?  I  heard  her  tell  Dr.  Ly- 
man  that  the  plays  deteriorated  every  year — 
(Enter  another  usher.) 

Second  Usher.  Girls,  you  must  be  quiet !  That 
woman  at  the  back  says  she  can't  hear  a 
word — 

^[  Curtain  rises  on  Fourth  Scene;  applause,  as 
audience  takes  in  stage  setting.  Row  of  enthusiastic 
alumna  in  upper  box. 

First  Alumna.  (Happy  mother  of  three ;  head 
of  sewing  circle ;  leader  of  the  most  advanced  set 

C  287  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

in  her  college  days;  president  of  the  Anti-En 
gagement  League,  junior  year.)  Oh,  girls,  did 
you  ever  see  anything  so  lovely?  How  do  they 
manage  it  ?  We  never  imagined  anything  like 
it,  I  'm  perfectly  willing  to  admit.  Are  n't  those 
lords  and  ladies  fine  ?  Why,  look  at  them — 
there  must  be  forty  or  fifty  !  And  are  n't  the 
costumes  beautiful  ?  How  handsome  Orsino 
is! 

Second  Alumna.  (Rising  journalist;  very  well 
dressed;  knows  all  the  people  of  note  in  the  audi 
ence;  affects  a  society  manner;  was  known  as  the 
Gloomy  Genius  in  her  college  daysy  and  never 
talked  with  any  one  who  didn't  read  Browning.) 
Quite  professional,  really  !  How  that  Miss 
Jackson  reminds  one  of  Rehan!  I  wonder  if 
Daly  sends  the  trainer?  That  little  Maria, 
now — she's  quite  unusual.  Lovely  figure, 
has  n't  she  ?  Elizabeth  Quentin  Twitchell. 
Dr.  Twitchell  of  Cambridge,  I  wonder  ?  Do 
they  set  that  stage  alone  ? 

'Third  Alumna.  (Blonde  and  gushing;  sister 
in  the  cast.)  You  know,  that  Miss  Twitchell 
was  the  best  Viola,  too,  they  say.  Peggy  tells 
me  Mr.  Clark  says  he  wished  she  could  play 
them  both.  She  's  very  popular  with  the  class. 
But  Miss  Jackson  does  everything.  Writes, 
acts,  plays  basket-ball,  beautiful  class  work — 
[288  ] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

Oh,  is  n't  that  sweet !  (Clown  and  chorus  of 
ladies  with  mandolins  and  guitars  sing  to  wild 
applause.) 

Fourth  Alumna.  (  Tall,  thin,  dark,  and  dowdy ; 
very  humble  in  manner;  high-principled;  worth 
two  millions  in  her  own  right;  slaved  throughout 
her  entire  college  course.)  I  don't  see  how  any 
body  can  say  that  girls  can't  do  anything  in  the 
world  they  set  out  to.  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  You 
can  say  what  you  please,  but  it 's  just  as  Ella 
says — they  do  ten  times  what  we  did  and  do 
it  better  too.  I  think  they're  prettier  than  they 
used  to  be,  don't  you  ?  And  they're  just  like 
real  actors — I  'm  sure  it's  prettier  than  any 
play  I  ever  saw  !  They  make  such  wonderful 
men !  Would  you  ever  know  that  Sir  Toby  was 
a  girl  ?  And  Malvolio — he  's  just  too  good  for 
anything ! 

Curtain  falls  on  Fourth  Scene. 

*[[  tfhere  is  a  long  wait  in  total  darkness.  The 
audience  smiles,  then  settles  down  to  be  amused. 
Somebody  faints  and  is  restored  with  shuffling, 
apologies,  and  salts. 

Slender,  dark-eyed,  gray-haired  man,  with 
non-committal  expression,  uncle  of  one  of  the 
Mob;  with  his  wife,  who  grows  more  frankly 
puzzled  as  the  play  advances. 

[  289  ] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

Uncle.  I  suppose  they  Ve  outdone  them 
selves  in  this  garden  scene. 

Aunt.  Yes,  Bertha  says  they  Ve  worked 
tremendously  over  it.  Henry,  what  do  you 
think  of  it  ? 

Uncle.  Very  ingenious,  my  dear. 

Aunt.  But  Henry,  their  voices — 

Uncle.  They  are  a  little  destructive  to  the  il 
lusion,  but  you  hear  the  gentleman  behind  me. 
He  assures  us  that  he  thinks  they  are  men  ! 

Aunt.  Oh,  Henry ! 

Uncle.  It 's  a  pity  they  have  n't  more  like 
Maria.  Viola  could  take  a  few  points  from  her. 

Aunt.  But  Bertha  says  that  they  adore 
Viola.  She  writes,  and  plays  basket-ball,  and 
stands  high  in  her  classes,  and — 

Uncle.  But  she  is  n't  an  aftress,  that 's  all. 
She  should  n't  grasp  all  the  arts  !  She  's  too 
melodramatic — she  rants. 

Aunt.  Bertha  says  the  trainer  admires  her 
very  much — he  wants  her  to  go  on  the  stage. 

Uncle.  Oh!  does  he? 

Aunt.  Did  you  know  that  even  the  mobs  are 
trained  very  carefully?  Bertha  says  she  goes  to 
rehearsals  all  the  time.  And  the  principal  parts 
—  Malvolio  worked  six  hours  with  Mr.  Clark 
one  day  and  eight  the  next.  And  Viola  had 
to  do  more.  And  the  stage  committee  slave y 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

Henry,  they  simply  slave.  Little  Esther 
Brookes  is  worn  to  a  shadow — not  but  what 
they  love  to  do  it. 

Uncle.  And  when  did  Malvolio  and  Viola 
and  the  stage  committee  do  their  studying? 

Aunt.  Oh,  they  keep  up  with  their  work. 
It 's  a  point  of  honor  with  them,  Bertha  says. 
Of  course  they  can't  do  quite  so  much,  I  sup 
pose — 

Uncle.  I  suppose  not. 

Aunt.  But  Bertha  says  that  they  would  give 
up  anything  in  college  sooner  than  that.  Viola 
and  Malvolio,  both  of  them,  say  that  they  re 
gard  it  as  the  most  valuable  training  they  Ve 
gotten  up  here.  They  say  it 's  quite  the  equal 
of  any  of  their  courses. 

Uncle.  Ah!  do  they? 

T|  Curtain  rises  on  a  very  elaborate  garden  scene 
of  arbors  and  flowers ;  frantic  applause,  doubled 
at  the  entrance  of  Sir  'Toby  and  Sir  Andrew. 

Group  of  cynical  alumna  on  fire-escape. 

First  Alumna.  As  for  that  Sir  Toby — 

Second  Alumna.  Hush,  my  dear,  that  may 
be  the  bosom  of  her  family  forninst  us ! 

First  Alumna,  lowering  her  voice.  I  think 
he  's  indecent  and  ridiculous. 

Second  Alumna.  H  e  '11  be  the  pride  of  the  class, 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

my  little  cousin  says.  They  're  raving  over  him. 

First  Alumna.  Then  they  're  idiots.  My 
dear,  we  may  have  had  our  faults,  but  we  were 
seldom  vulgar,  if  we  weren't  remarkable! 

Third  Alumna.  What  I  mind  so  much  is  that 
all  the  papers  are  filled  with  that  trash  about 
gracefulness  and  womanliness  and  girlish  deli 
cacy  and  the  great  gulf  between  us  and  the 
coarse  professionals,  and  as  far  as  I  can  see, 
we  are  filling  in  that  gulf  as  fast  as  possible. 
We  seem  to  be  striving  after  the  very  thing — 

First  Alumna.  Precisely.  In  a  word,  it 's 
Daly,  not  Shakespeare.  And  they  don't  see 
that  Dalyism  takes  money — we  have  n't  the 
scenery  and  costumes  for  it. 

Second  Alumna.  That  horrible  Sir  Andrew! 

Fourth  Alumna.  But  Malvolio — 

First  Alumna.  Oh,  Malvolio 's  all  right. 
As  far  as  a  girl  can  do  it.  The  question  is,  can 
a  girl  do  it?  I  think  she  can't. 

Third  Alumna.  And  as  for  allowing  that  Miss 
Jackson  to  imitate  all  Ada  Rehan's  bad  points, 
when  she  naturally  fails  of  her  good  ones — 

Fourth  Alumna.  But,  my  dear,  the  men  like 
it.  They  're  all  pleased  to  death.  They  think 
it 's  the  cleverest  thing  they  ever  saw.  They 
say  Viola  's  magnetic — 

Third  Alumna.  Hgh !  She  's  coarse,  if  that's 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

what  you  mean!  The  whole  tone  of  the  thing 
is  lowered.  I  think  that  way  she  afted  the 
duel  scene  last  night  was  simply  vulgar.  But 
the  girls  all  howled  with  laughter. 

Fourth  Alumna.  Well,  if  they  're  pleased — 

First  Alumna.  They  should  n't  be  pleased ! 

Fourth  Alumna.  Surely,  Annie,  you  think 
this  garden  scene  is  funny! 

First  Alumna.  Why,  I  laughed.  It 's  a  good 
acting  play.  But  I  wish  the  Literature  depart 
ment  had  more  to  do  with  it  and  the  trainer 
confined  himself  to — 

Usher  interrupts.  If  you  please,  I  must  ask 
you  to  make  less  noise.  You  are  disturbing 
the  people  near  the  door! 

^f  ^he  curtain  has  fallen  on  the  Fourth  Att.  A 
group  of  last  year's  graduates  standing  at  the 
back  in  party-cloaks^  with  a  few  of  the  Mob  in 
shirt-waists  and  make-up. 

Recent  Court  Lady,  tentatively.  Did  you  like 
the  dance? 

First  Graduate.  Oh,  it  was  fine !  It  was  terri 
bly  pretty,  Ellen,  the  whole  thing! 

Recent  Court  Lady ',  relieved.  I  'm  so  glad  you 
liked  it.  Was  n't  Sue  grand ! 

First  Graduate.  Yes,  indeed,  but  I  liked 
Malvolio  so  much! 

[  293  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Court  Gentleman.  Good  old  Dick !  My,  don't 
we  love  her!  Orsino's  going  to  do  him  at  class 
supper,  you  know.  And  Olivia  's  going  to  be 
Sir  Toby. 

Second  Graduate.  How  noble!  Sir  Toby  is 
about  the  best  I  ever  saw,  May. 

Court  Gentleman.  Is  n't  she  that?  She  's  go 
ing  to  be  Viola.  She  squirms  and  twists  just 
like  her — 

Court  Lady.  Oh,  come  on,  May  Lucy,  and 
get  to  bed!  (They  go  out  whistling  airs  from 
the  play  and  are  violently  suppressed  by  a  group 
of  ushers^  whose  excited  remonstrances  are  loudly 
criticised  by  a  large  and  nervous  lady  in  the  reary 
greatly  delighting  the  contingent  from  the  Mob.) 

First  Graduate.  Now,  Katharine,  just  tell 
me,  perfectly  impartially  of  course,  how  you 
think  it  compares  with  ours. 

Second  Graduate.  Well,  girls,  frankly  I  must 
say  I  'm  a  little  disappointed.  (Nods  from  the 
others.) 

Third  Graduate.  It 's  not  that  it 's  not  well 
done,  for  it  is,  but  it 's  such  a  fine  play  it 
ought  to  have  been  well  done  by  anybody. 
And  for  all  that  Sue  Jackson's  such  a  won 
der,  I  must  say — 

Fourth  Graduate.  Yes,  exactly.  She 's  too 
heavy  for  the  part,  I  think. 
[  ^94  ] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

Second  Graduate.  Of  course  Toby  was  fine 
and  Malvolio  and  Maria  — 

Fifth  Graduate.  Well,  then,  with  three  fine 
ones  I  should  think  —  • 

Second  Graduate.  But  Olivia  and  Sebastian 
and  Orsino  were  such  sticks  — 

Fourth  Graduate.  Still,  those  third  and 
fourth  and  fifth  scenes  in  the  second  acl:  were 
beautiful. 

Second  Graduate.  But  the  others  were  so 
plain.  They  just  stacked  on  the  good  ones. 
Still,  I  suppose  they  did  the  best  they  could. 
Mary  Vanderveer  has  just  slaved  over  it. 

Fifth  Graduate.  We  know  what  that  is  ! 

Second  Graduate.  Well,  honestly,  I  think 
this  is  a  -prettier  play  than  ours,  but  I  do  feel 
that  ours  was  a  little  better  done!  Here,  let's 
see  Sue  in  this.  I  think  she  's  pretty  good. 


'The  curtain  has  fallen  on  the  Fifth  Aft. 

and  ISiola  come  out  of  their  dressing-room 
to  the  street^  and  slip  out  of  a  crowd  of  ushers 
and  under-class  girls.  A  general  flutter  of  con 
gratulation  and  sympathy  follows  them. 

Oh,  Miss  Jackson,  it  was  great  !  Simply 
fine  !  Susy,  my  child,  say  what  you  'd  like  and 
it's  yours!  —  Where's  Lida  Fosdick?  —  Lida! 
Dick  !  She  's  gone  long  ago.  Where  's  Toby? 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

Gone,  too.  Somebody  has  some  flowers  for 
her.  Oh,  take  'em  up  to  the  Wallace  ! — Well, 
good-night!  Wasn't  it  grand!  —  Grand! 
There  's  Betty  !  Hi,  Betty !  Oh,  Miss  Twitch- 
ell,  it  was  so — 

Miss  fwttchett)  mechanically.  So  glad,  so 
glad  you  liked  it — we  loved  to  do  it !  Oh, yes  ! 
Oh,  dear,  no  !  Just  a  little,  yes.  The  making- 
up  was  so  long.  Mother — thank  you,  thank 
you  —  Mother,  where  is  the  carriage?  Oh, 
thank  you  so  much  ! 

Mrs.  fwitchtll^  nervously.  Yes,  indeed, she's 
tired  to  death.  I  'm  very  glad,  I  'm  sure,  if  you 
liked  it.  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Waite? 
Yes,  here  she  is.  Bessie,  here  is  Mrs.  Waite. 
You  see  she  sat  in  the  Opera  House  since 
five  o'clock  to  be  made  up,  and  only  sand 
wiches  and  all  the  strain — yes,  indeed.  Fanny 
looked  very  pretty,  I  thought.  In  the  dance, 
was  n't  she  ?  Yes,  so  pretty.  I  'm  sure  I  wish 
Bessie  had  only  been  in  the  dance — Oh,  here  's 
the  carriage,  dear ! 

^[  Malvolio  and  Viola^  slipping  quietly  past  the 
crowd;  make-up  not  off;  arms  on  each  other's 
shoulders. 

Malvolio.  I  suppose  Dad 's  holding  that 
carriage  somewhere. 

[  296  ] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

Viola.  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  I  simply  can't 
talk  to  everybody. 

Malvolio.  Do  you  know  your  speech  ? 

Viola.  I  think  so.  It 's  so  short,  you  know. 
I  hate  to  have  the  president's  speech  long. 
(  A  pause.) 

Malvolio.  Well,  it 's  over,  Susy  Revere  ! 
No  more  glory  for  little  Lide  and  Sue  ! 

Viola.  All  over  !  Well,  we  Ve  had  the  time 
of  our  lives,  Dick  !  I  'd — I  'd  give  anything 
to  do  it  over  again,  three  nights  ! 

Malvolio.  Me  too.  It 's  a  pleasant  little  spot 
up  here,  fffuy  walk  to  the  campus  in  silence.) 

^[  Recent  court  lady  and  two  young  gentlemen, 
brothers  of  her  friend,  the  stage  manager.  Her 
eyes  are  underlined  heavily ,  and  she  has  not  got 
ten  the  rouge  quite  off  her  cheeks. 

Recent  Court  Lady.  Oh,  thank  you,  it  would 
be  such  a  help !  Mollie  is  nearly  wild,  and  these 
things  must  be  got  out  to-night.  If  you  would 
take  this  and  this  and  this,  and  oh,  Father, 
would  you  please  carry  this  tankard  and  the 
cups  ?  And  could  you  take  those  two  swords  ? 
I  '11  take  the  distaff  and  the  mandolin.  Jack, 
have  you  room  for  the  moon  ?  Will,  here 
are  more  poppies,  and  I  promised  Ada  that 
I  'd  put  that  rubber-plant  in  her  room  to- 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

night.  You  're  so  good  !  You  're  sure  you 
don't  mind  carrying  them  ?  Now  don't  get 
laughing,  Father,  and  drop  the  cups. 

ARecent  Court  Gentleman.  Good-night,  dear  ! 
I  knew  you  'd  like  it.  Oh,  I  think  everybody 
seems  to  feel  it 's  the  best  yet.  Of  course,  last 
year  they  had  so  much  better  opportunity,  so 
much  easier  scenery.  But  with  four  such  stars 
— yes,  indeed.  It  was  so  much  harder  to  find 
people  to  take — oh,  she  did!  She  thinks  that 
just  because  it  does  n't  all  depend  on  one  or 
two  people,  it 's  easier  ?  Well,  just  find  your 
extra  people,  that 's  all!  —  Did  you  like  it?  Most 
people  seemed  to  think  it  was  a  pretty  dance. 
Well,  we  rehearsed  enough,  heaven  knows. 
Did  you  know  Orsino's  fiance  was  there  ?  She 
said  she  felt  like  such  an  idiot.  Too  bad  Sue 
got  scared,  was  n't  it  ?  Well,  good-night. 

^  Steps  of  the  Dewey  House.  'Three  ushers 
propped  against  the  pillars.  The  night  watchman 
approaches  with  lantern. 

Watchman.  Well,  well,  well !  Want  to  get 
in  ?  Hi '//  bet  yer  do  !  (First  usher  nods  her 
head.)  Are  yer  h'ushers  ?  Fine  play,  wa'n't 
it  ?  (Second  usher  nods  her  head.)  Well,  you 
do  look  tired!  'You  pretty  tired,  Miss  Slater? 
(Third  usher  murmurs  something  about  sleeping 

[  298  ] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

//'//  noon,  and  second  usher  chuckles  feebly  and 
mentions  Baccalaureate.  They  stumble  into  the 
Dewey,  and  the  watchman  shuts  the  door.) 

ii 

IVY    DAY 

THE  sun  is  glaring  down  on  the  campus.  A 
crowd  of  parents  and  other  relatives  is  surg 
ing  toward  an  awning  near  the  steps  of  College 
Hall-,  a  stream  of  white-dressed  seniors  continually 
flows  toward  the  Hatfield  House,  where  a  proces 
sion  is  forming.  Forty  junior  ushers  struggle  with 
a  rope  wound  with  laurel,  which  is  to  encompass 
the  column  of  seniors.  A  few  scattered  members 
of  the  Faculty  and  a  crowd  of  alumnae  wander 
aimlessly  about,  obstructing  traffic  generally. 

Small  imperious  mother,  dragging  large  good- 
humored  father  toward  the  awning.  Hurry  up, 
Father,  hurry  up  ! 

Father.  But  Mother,  I  want  to  see  'em  ! 

Mother.  Well,  you  Ve  got  to  take  your 
choice  of  seeing  'em  and  not  hearing  a  word 
of  the  speech  or — 

Father.  You  go  right  along,  Mother,  and 
I  '11  get  there  on  time.  I  want  to  see  Hattie 
marching. 

^f  A  crowd  of  girls  with  cameras  rushes  up  and 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

lines  both  sides  of  the  walk.  'Two  ushers  sail  up 
the  path,  clearing  a  way  with  white-ribboned 
sticks.  The  crowd  becomes  unmanageable,  torn  by 
the  desire  to  watch  the  progress  of  the  march  and 
at  the  same  time  to  secure  a  good  place  at  the  ex 
ercises.  People  summon  each  other  wildly  from 
various  points  of  the  campus. 

A  group  of  strolling  sophomores,  dodging  some 
ushers  and  wheedling  programmes  from  others, 
screws  its  way  in  a  body  to  the  best  possible  posi 
tion  in  the  front,  smiling  at  the  efforts  of  the  dis 
placed  to  reinstate  themselves. 

First  Sophomore.  There  they  come  !  There 's 
Sue  and  Betty  Twitchell !  My,  what  roses  ! 

Second  Sophomore.  Roses  ?  Did  the  ushers — 

Third  Sophomore.  Oh,  goodness,  Win, 
have  n't  you  heard  that  yet  ? 

Second  Sophomore.  No — tell  me  ! 

Third  Sophomore.  Why,  Miss  Tomlinson's 
fiance  sent  her  fifteen  dozen  American  Beau 
ties,  and  there  wasn't  any  room  for  them  in  the 
house,  and  she  asked  if  the  class  would  like  to 
carry  them,  and  first  they  voted  no  and  then 
they  voted  yes,  and  some  of  the  girls  don't 
like  it,  but  they  are  doing  it  just  the  same — 
Oh,  isn't  Helen  Estabrook's  gown  stunning! 
There's Wilhelmina— Hello, Will!  Sue  looks 
well,  don't  you  think  ? 

[  300  ] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

Second  Sophomore.  Fifteen  dozen  American 
Beauties  !  Great  heavens  ! 

First  Sophomore.  I  think  it 's  perfectly  ab 
surd  and  bad  taste,  too.  The  idea  ! 

Third  Sophomore.  Well,  she  's  not  to  blame, 
is  she  ?  They  're  certainly  lots  prettier  than 
laurel  or  daisies  or  odd  flowers — Oh,  girls,  / 
think  Louise  Hunter  is  too  silly  for  anything  ! 
She  feels  too  big  to  live,  leading  the  way  !  I  'd 
try  to  look  a  little  less  like  a  poker  if  I  was 
an  usher ! 

^[  'The  Ivy  Procession  marches  to  the  steps  two 
and  two,  each  girl  with  an  enormous  American 
Beauty  in  her  hand.  At  every  step  the  girls  with 
cameras  snap  and  turn^  so  that  the  sound  resem 
bles  a  miniature  volley  of  cannon.  'There  is  a  com 
parative  silence  during  their  progress. 

Mother  and  daughter  standing  on  their  seats 
under  awning,  clutching  at  the  heads  of  those 
near  them  for  support. 

Mother.  Who  is  that  with  Susy,  dear  ? 

Daughter.  That 's  the  vice-president  —  I 
don't  know  her  name.  Sue  looks  pale,  does  n't 
she? 

Mother.  And  that 's  Bess  Twitchell  next — 
with  the  tucks.  She  's  Ivy  Orator,  you  know. 
I  think  Sue's  dress  drops  too  much  in  the 

[  301  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 
back — Ah,  Miss  Fosdick  has  stepped  on  it ! 
Good  heavens — right  on  that  Valenciennes  ! 

( She  sits  down  abruptly.) 

^[  'The  procession  winds  slowly  up  and  groups 
itself  on  the  steps.  The  last  third  stands  a  long 
while  before  the  awning  and  exchanges  somewhat 
conscious  remarks  with  its  friends  outside  the 
rope,  which  the  ushers  endeavor  to  carry  without 
straining  or  dropping:  this  attempt  puckers  their 
foreheads  and  tilts  their  hats. 

A  group  of  last  year's  graduates  standing  close 
to  the  enclosure. 

First  Graduate.  Stunning  gowns,  aren't 
they? 

Second  Graduate.  Awfully.  Prettiest  I  ever 
saw.  And  so  different,  too !  And  yet  they  're 
all  alike — organdie  over  silk  or  satin,  mostly. 
Is  n't  Sue  Jackson's  lovely? 

Third  Graduate.  I  like  Esther  Brookes' ; 
it's  so  plain,  but  there 's  not  a  more  artistic — 

Fourth  Graduate.  How  do  you  like  Lena 
Bergstein's? 

Fifth  Graduate.  What 's  that  ? 

Fourth  Graduate.  My  dear,  have  n't  you 
seen  that?  It 's  solid  Valenciennes  as  far  as  I 
can  see.  I  think  it 's  altogether  too  elaborate. 
But  I  tell  you,  it's  stunning,  all  the  same! 

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AT   COMMENCEMENT 

Fifth  Graduate.  Ah,  I  see  it!  Poor  taste,  I 
think. 

Fourth  Graduate.  I  know  it.  Betty  Twitch- 
ell's  is  so  simple — 

First  Graduate.  Simple,  yes !  It 's  imported, 
I  happen  to  know! 

Fourth  Graduate.  Really!  I  tdoes  hang  beau 
tifully!  Oh,  they're  moving:  there's  Sir 
Toby.  You  know  nobody  ever  heard  of  her 
before,  girls.  Isn't  that  funny?  Wasn't  she 
great,  though? 

Second  Graduate.  Well,  they  won't  forget 
her  in  a  hurry.  I  think  it 's  a  mighty  good 
thing  that  Dramatics  brings  out  that  kind 
of  girl  and  gives  her  a  place  in  the  class.  It 
keeps  two  or  three  girls  like  Sue  Jackson 
and  Twitchie  and  Mollie  Van  from  running 
everything.  Well,  going  to  stay  here? 

^f  A  Ubiquitous  member  of  the  Faculty  suddenly 
dashes  from  her  seat  and  pushes  through  the  crowd, 
which  lets  her  out,  under  the  impression  that  she 
is  faint. 

Ubiquitous  Member  of  Faculty ,  to  a  scared 
usher.  Where  is  Dr.  Twitchell?  Is  he  back 
there? 

Usher.  I  —  I  don't  know  !  Is  he  big? 

Ubiquitous  Member  of  Faculty.   Big?   Big? 

[303  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

What  do  you  mean?  A  pretty  thing — to  have 
the  father  of  the  Ivy  Orator  have  no  seat !  He 
must  be  found! 

Usher.  I — I  '11  go  see — 

Ubiquitous  Member  of  Faculty.  Do  you  know 
him? 

Usher ,  helpless  but  optimistic.  No,  but  I  '11 — 

Ubiquitous  Member  of  Faculty,  suddenly  dash 
ing  through  the  crowd  into  a  lilac  clump  and  pro 
ducing,  to  every  one's  amazement,  a  large  and 
amiable  gentleman  from  its  centre.  Well,  well! 
Are  you  going  to  remain  here  long,  Dr. 
Twitchell?  Why  aren't  you  in  your  seat? 

Dr.  Twitchell,  somewhat  embarrassed  at  his 
-prominent  position,  but  beaming  on  every  one. 
Why,  no — that  is,  yes,  indeed !  Certainly. 
I  only  wanted  to  see  Bessie  march  along  with 
the  rest.  A  very  pretty  sight — remarkably  so ! 
All  in  white — I  counted  ninety  couples,  I 
think.  Has — has  she  begun?  Is  her  mother — 

Ubiquitous  Member  of  Faculty.  We  're  all  in 
the  front  row,  and  they  've  not  begun.  The  class 
president  will  be  making  her  speech  in  a  mo 
ment — there  is  plenty  of  time,  but  we  were  a 
little  anxious — ('They  enter  the  enclosure.) 

^[  The  class  is  crowded  upon  the  steps  and  over 
flows  before  and  behind  them.  The  sun  is  in 

[  304  ] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

their  eyes,  and  they  look  strained  and  pale.  Under 
the  awning  a  few  hundred  relatives  fan  them 
selves,  and  smile  expectantly. 

'The  class  president  makes  an  indistinguish 
able  address,  in  which  the  phrases  "  more  glad 
than  I  can  say,"  "unusual  opportunity"  "wom 
en's  education"  "extends  a  hearty  welcome" 
rise  above  the  rest,  and  sinks  back  into  the  crowd. 

'The  leader  of  the  Glee  Club  frowns  at  her 
mates  and  leans  forward :  the  class  sings  "Fair 
Smith"  with  a  great  deal  of  contralto.  The  Ivy 
Orator  steps  back  and  upward  instinctively,  with 
an  idea  of  escaping  from  the  heads  and  shoulders 
that  are  packed  like  herring  about  her,  realizes 
that  the  audience  is  entirely  out  of  her  reach,  steps 
down  to  meet  them,  becomes  lost  to  view,  and  with 
a  despairing  consciousness  that  nothing  can  better 
the  most  futile  position  she  has  ever  occupied,  steps 
back  to  her  first  place  and  shrieks  out  her  opening 
phrases. 

Two  mothers  sitting  on  a  bench  just  behind  the 
enclosure,  looking  over  the  campus. 

First  Mother.  So  you  did  n't  get  a  seat? 

Second  Mother.  Well,  I  did  n't  try,  to  tell 
the  truth.  I  'm  interested  in  the  speech,  but 
my  daughter  tells  me  that  I  can  see  it  in  the 
Monthly  next  fall,  and  as  I  got  here  so  late,  I 
could  n't  possibly  hear  it  from  the  back. 


SMITH    COLLEGE   STORIES 

First  Mother.  I  was  sorry  to  leave,  for  Kate 
wanted  me  to  hear  Bessie  so  much;  but  after 
Miss  Jackson's  speech  I  had  to  go — the  heat 
made  me  rather  faint.  And  as  you  say,  one 
can  read  it. 

Second  Mother. That 's  what  every  one  seems 
to  think — see  them  all  walking  up  and  down 
here.  One  of  the  old  graduates — a  friend  of 
my  daughter's — told  me  that  this  was  the 
chance  for  them  to  talk  with  the  professors! 

First  Mother.  Well,  I  suppose  if  they  will 
have  it  outdoors,  very  many  people  can't  ex- 
peel  to  hear.  It's  very  hard  to  speak  in  the 
open  air. 

Second  Mother.  Yes,  indeed.  What  a  fine- 
looking  girl  that  Miss  Ackley  is — the  dark 
one — did  you  notice  her  ? 

First  Mother.  That  is  my  daughter,  so  I  Ve 
noticed  her  quite  a  little! 

Second  Mother.  Oh,  indeed!  I'm  sure  I 
did  n't  know — 

First  Mother.  It  is  n't  necessary  to  be  told 
thatjy0#  have  a  daughter  here,  Mrs.  Fosdick! 

Second  Mother.  No,  everybody  seems  to 
think  that  the  resemblance  is  very  strong  in 
deed.  Is  n't  it  pleasant  to  meet  people  so 
strangely,  and  without  any  ceremony,  like  this? 
It 's  a  very  pleasant  place,  anyway,  is  n't  it? 

[306] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

First  Mother.  Yes,  indeed.  It 's  beautiful 
all  the  spring,  but  particularly  beautiful  now, 
I  think,  with  all  the  girls  in  their  pretty 
dresses  and  the  general  holiday  effecl. 

Second  Mother.  What  I  like  so  much  is  the 
spirit  of  the  place.  When  we  found  out  from 
things  in  my  daughter's  letters  and  stories 
she  would  tell  us  in  the  vacations  that  all  her 
little  set  of  friends  were  very  much  richer  than 
she  and  could  afford  luxuries  and  enjoyments 
that  she  could  n't,  Mr.  Fosdick  and  I  were 
quite  worried  for  fear  that  she  would  feel  hurt, 
you  know,  or  want  to  get  into  a  style  of  living 
that  she  could  not  possibly  keep  up.  But,  dear 
me,  we  need  n't  have  worried!  It  never  made 
the  least  difference,  just  as  she  assured  us. 
We  were  very  glad  to  find  that  she  was  the 
friend  of  some  of  the  leading  girls  in  the  class, 
when  we  saw  that  she  went  right  along  as  she 
had  to,  tutoring  and  selling  blue  prints  and 
going  about  just  as  contentedly  as  if  her  shirt 
waists  had  been  their  organdies.  Not  that  that 
sort  of  thing  ought  to  make  any  difference,  but 
sometimes  it  does^  you  know.  She  was  telling 
me  about  Bess  Twitchell's  Commencement 
dress,  and  Sue  Jackson's,  and  I  grew  quite 
alarmed,  for  I  thought  that  perhaps  that  was 
expecled,  and  we  couldn't  possibly  afford  any- 

[  307  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

thing  like  it.  But,  dear  me,  it  was  all  the  same 
to  her!  She  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  muslin, 
and  when  I  asked  her  if  she  was  sure  she  'd 
prefer  to  walk  with  Bess,  she  actually  made 
me  feel  ashamed!  Bess  herself  said  that  it 
wasn't  every  one  who  could  have  the  honor 
of  walking  with  Malvolio,  and  she  'd  like  to 
see  herself  lose  it! 

First  Mother.  Oh,  of  course  !  Why,  I  have 
always  understood,  both  from  Kate  and  her 
cousin  who  graduated  three  years  ago,  that 
some  of  the  leading  girls  in  every  class  were 
poor.  The  girls  seemed  prouder  of  them,  if 
anything.  As  you  say,  it 's  the  spirit  of  the 
place.  Now  Kate  herself — well,  it 's  a  little 
thing,  I  suppose,  but  her  father  and  I — well, 
I  suppose  any  one  would  think  us  silly,  but 
we  actually  cried,  we  were  so  touched.  Her 
father  gave  her  her  dress — it  was  really  lovely. 
Not  elaborate,  but  it  was  made  over  beautiful 
silk,  and  he  gave  her  a  handsome  string  of 
those  mock  pearls  they  wear  so  much  now, 
you  know.  It  was  very  becoming  to  her  in 
deed,  and  she  was  delighted  with  it. 

Well,  just  three  weeks  ago  I  got  a  long  let 
ter  from  her  saying  that  Eleanor  Hunt's  father 
had  lost  every  cent  he  had  in  the  world  and 
that  they  were  in  a  dreadful  condition.  Elea- 
[308  ] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

nor's  mother  had  sold  her  Commencement 
gown  and  Eleanor  was  going  to  wear  an  old 
white  organdie  that  she  'd  worn  all  the  year  to 
dances  and  plays.  She  said  that  Eleanor  was 
feeling  very  bad  indeed  about  it  and  especially 
about  Commencement  time.  They  had  planned 
to  walk  together  in  all  the  processions — they 
are  great  friends.  So  she  asked  me  if  I  thought 
Papa  would  mind  if  she  wore  her  old  organ 
die,  too,  to  all  the  things,  because  Eleanor 
seemed  to  feel  it  so.  Her  father  offered  to  give 
Eleanor  onefor  a  Commencement  present  from 
her,  but  she  would  n't  have  that — she  said 
Eleanor  would  n't  like  it — she  was  feeling 
very  proud  about  gifts,  just  now. 

Well,  her  father  was  more  pleased  than  I  Ve 
seen  him  for  years.  You  see,  Kate  has  always 
thought  a  great  deal  of  her  clothes,  and  she  's 
always  had  a  good  allowance,  besides  lots  of 
presents  from  us  and  her  aunts.  And  being  an 
only  child,  you  know — well,  I  would  n't  say 
she  was  spoiled  at  all,  but  she  certainly  was  a 
little  thoughtless,  perhaps  selfish,  when  she 
came  up  here.  Her  father  and  I  feel  that  it  has 
done  a  great  deal  for  her.  He  says  that  he  'd 
call  it  a  good  investment  if  she'd  never  learned 
anything  in  all  the  four  years  but  just  how  to 
do  that  one  thing! 

[  309  ] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

Second  Mother.  Yes,  indeed  !  We  feel,  Mr. 
Fosdick  and  I,  that  my  daughter's  friends 
have  been  almost  as  good  for  her  as  what  she 
learned,  though  that  comes  first,  as  she  must 
teach,  now.  She  was  always  so  solitary  and  re 
served  and  never  cared  for  the  girls  at  home, 
but  here  she  has  such  good  friends  and  loves 
them  all  so — she  's  grown  more  natural,  more 
like  other  girls;  and  we  lay  it  all  to  her  hav 
ing  been  thrown  in  from  the  beginning  with 
such  pleasant,  nice  girls  as  these.  You  know 
them,  I  suppose — Bessie  and  Sue  and  Bertha 
Kitts — 

^f  'Two  alumna  strolling  between  the  houses  and 
the  enclosure ,  chatting  with  friends  and  spying 
out  acquaintances. 

First  Alumna.  Good  gracious,  is  n't  she 
through  yet  ?  I  pity  the  poor  girls,  standing 
all  this  while ! 

Second  Alumna.  Yes,  that 's  just  it !  Arrange 
the  oration  to  suit  the  girls,  do!  —  If  they  're 
tired,  let  them  sit  down  !  It 's  absurd  to  criti 
cise  the  one  really  academic  exercise  of  the 
whole  affair  entirely  on  the  basis  of  the  girls' 
comfort,  I  say  ! 

First  Alumna.  But,  my  dear,  the  poor  things 
have  done  so  much  and  stood  so  much  any- 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

how — and  I  should  think  Miss  Maria  would 
be  tired  herself. 

Second  Alumna.  Then  it 's  her  own  lookout. 
She  should  have  dropped  one  or  the  other. 
They  try  to  do  too  much.  I  can  tell  you  that 
we  were  proud  enough  to  stand  twenty  min 
utes  when  Ethel  Richardson  talked,  and  she 
did  n't  feel  that  it  was  beneath  her  notice  to 
devote  all  her  time  and  attention  to  that  one 
thing,  either.  We  did  n't  make  so  much  of 
these  universal  geniuses  then,  but  I  doubt  if 
we  had  poorer  results  from  the  less  widely 
gifted.lt 's  too  much  strain;  one  simply  can't 
do  everything. 

First  Alumna.  No.  They  're  'way  ahead  of 
us  in  lots  of  things,  but  I  'm  glad  I  came 
when  I  did.  Don't  you  remember  what  a  good 
time  we  used  to  have  spring  term  ?  Dear  old 
last  spring  term  !  Do  you  know  there  is  n't 
any,  now  ?  Don't  you  remember  how  we 
dropped  ev — well,  a  good  deal,  and  lay  in 
the  hammocks  in  the  orchard  and  mooned 
about  and  took  a  long,  comprehensive  fare 
well  to  all  our  greatness  ?  We  'd  made  or  lost 
our  reputations  by  then,  and  we  just  took  it 
all  in  and — oh,  I  suppose  we  did  sentimen 
talize  a  little,  but  it  all  meant  more  to  us  ap 
parently.  .  .  .  Well,  it 's  all  gone  now.  They 

[311  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

begin  on  the  play  so  early,  and  it 's  all  re 
hearsing,  and  then  they  can't  let  their  work 
drop,  so  they  keep  everything  right  up  to  the 
pitch — according  to  their  story.  And  there  are 
six  societies  to  our  one,  you  know.  And  all 
the  houses  give  receptions  to  them  right  in  a 
bunch,  and  every  one  is  so  bored  at  them — 
at  least  Kitty  says  they  are.  But  you  can't 
always  tell  by  that,  I  suppose. 

T|  Applause  from  the  enclosure  and  a  general 
scurry  as  the  ushers  crowd  up  to  surround  the 
class ,  who  begin  their  Ivy  Song — a  piece  of  mu 
sical  composition  something  between  a  Gregorian 
chant  and  a  Strauss  waltz,  with  a  great  deal  of 
modulation,in  which  the  words  "hopes  and  fears" 
"coming  years"  "plant  our  vine"  and  "still  en 
twine  ' '  occur  at  suitable  intervals.  'They  wander 
away  in  a  bunch,  frantically  surrounded  by  the 
ushers  and  the  chain,  to  another  side  of  College 
Hall,  where  the  Ivy  is  interred.  A  general  break 
up  then  begins,  the  orator  and  the  president  join 
their  admiring  families,  and  people  begin  to  stroll 
home,  the  prominent  members  of  the  class  pausing 
at  every  sentence  to  have  their  pitlures  taken. 
Two  members  of  the  class  and  one  of  the  Faculty. 
First  Member  of  Class.  It  was  the  funniest 
thing  I  Ve  heard  this  year,  really !  You  know 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

the  girls  simply  slave  for  her — they  slave.  They 
can't  help  it,  you  know,  for  she  thinks  that 's 
all  there  is  in  the  world  and  if  you  don't  have 
your  note-book  made  out  she  looks  at  you  in 
such  a  way — oh,  well,  it  makes  Mollie's  spine 
cold,  she  says.  Mollie  's  done  splendid  work 
for  her — not  that  she  does  n't  do  it  for  every 
body — but  she  was  determined  to  make  her 
see  that  she  could  be  at  all  the  rehearsals  and 
take  the  observations,  too.  The  only  thing 
she  did  n't  do  was  to  go  the  last  two  or  three 
nights,  but  gracious,  she  'd  more  than  made 
that  up !  I  thought  I  did  pretty  well  when  I 
put  in  five  hours  of  Lab.,  but  those  girls  have 
done  eight  and  ten  hours  a  week  some  weeks, 
note-books  and  observations  and  all.  Just  to 
satisfy  her,  you  know — they  love  to  work  for 
her.  And  what  do  you  think  she  said  the  last 
time  they  met  ?  Do  you  know  about  Astron 
omy,  Mr.  Brooke  ?  If  you  do,  I  shall  spoil  the 
story  for  you,  for  I  don't  know  the  first  thing. 
But  I  think  it  was  the  parallax  of  the  sun. 
"Now,  I  should  think  you  could  just  step  out 
between  the  acts,"  said  she,  calmly,  "if  you 
could  n't  get  out  for  all  the  evening,  and  take 
your  note-book  with  you,  Miss  Vanderveer, 
and  just  take  it — it 's  a  beautiful  observation ! 
And  you  Ve  taken  one,  and  it  will  be  a  great 
[  313  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

thing  to  tell  your  children  that  you  Ve  gotten 
the  parallaxes  of  the  sun  yourself!" 

Second  Member  of  Class.  And  when  we 
thought  of  Mollie  dancing  about  there  with 
her  collar  undone,  trying  to  make  those  idi 
otic  men  understand  something  and  being 
everywhere  at  once — between  the  adls,  you 
know,  being  a  fairly  occupied  time  for  her — 
when  we  imagined  her  walking  out  of  the  gar 
den  scene  or  Orsino's  house  to  take  the  what- 
do-you-call-it  of  the  sun  (though  I  don't  see 
how  she  could  take  it  of  the  sun  at  night — it 
must  have  been  the  moon,  Ethel). 

Member  of  Faculty.  And  what  did  Miss 
Vanderveer  say? 

First  Member  of  Class.  I  'm  sure  it  was  the 
sun,  Teddie,  Mollie  said  sun — why,  she 
coughed  and  said,  "I  certainly  will,  if  I  get 
time,  Miss  Drake!" 

Member  of  Faculty.  Great  presence  of  mind, 
I  'm  sure. 

^f  Group  of  relatives  and  three  members  of  the  class. 

First  Member.  Mamma,  this  is  Miss  Twitch- 
ell  and  Miss  Fosdick — Maria  and  Malvolio, 
you  know. 

Mother.  I  am  pleased  to  meet  you  both.  I 
want  to  tell  you  how  much  I  enjoyed,  etc. 

[314] 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

Misses  Twitchell  and  Fosdick.  We  're  so  glad 
if  you  did,  etc. 

Mother.  I  was  not  able  to  catch  much  of 
your  speech,  but  Ellen  tells  me  we  can  have 
the  pleasure  of  reading  it  later. 

Miss  Twitchell,  moving  away.  I  'm  afraid 
you  will  have  the  opportunity — but  I  tried 
to  make  it  as  short  as  I  could ! 

Mother.  And  now  I  suppose  you  're  going 
home  to  sleep  all  day  ?  I  should  think  you  'd 
need  it. 

Miss  'Twitchell.  Oh,  dear,  no !  I  'm  going  to 
the  Alpha  on  the  back  campus  this  afternoon, 
and  I  want  to  look  in  at  Colloquium,  and  then 
there  's  the  Glee  Club  to-night,  you  know. 
I  Ve  no  more  worry  now,  nothing  to  do  but 
enjoy  myself. 

Aunt.  What  is  this,  Ellen?  The  Glee  Club— 

Ellen.  Why,  Aunt  Grace,  the  Glee  Club 
promenade,  don't  you  know  ?  That 's  when 
the  lanterns  are  all  over,  and  they  give  a  con 
cert,  and  we  all  walk  about,  and  it 's  so  pretty 
— don't  you  remember  I  told  you? 

Aunt.  Well,  then,  I  '11  go  right  home  and 
take  my  nap,  if  I  'm  to  go  out  to-night.  Are 
you  going  to  all  these  things,  too,  Ellen  ? 

Ellen.  Well,  practically.  Only  I  'm  going  to 
Phi  Kapp  and  Biological  instead.  But  I  am 

[315] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

going  to  lie  down  —  I  'm  so  tired,  I  can't  think 
straight,  and  you  know  I  'm  on  the  Banjo 
Club,  and  we  have  to  have  a  short  rehearsal — 

^[  I'he  crowd  gradually  disperses,  and  the  campus 
is  practically  deserted;  men  begin  to  put  up  poles 
and  wires  for  lanterns ;  others  gather  and  arrange 
scattered  chairs.  Stray  relatives  hunt  for  each 
other  and  their  boarding-places  or  inquire  with 
interest  which  is  the  Science  Building  and  the 
Dewey  House.  Belated  members  of  the  class  wan 
der  homewards  or  patiently  seek  out  their  fami 
lies^  whose  temporary  guardians  are  thus  relieved. 

Abstracted  member  of  the  class  and  large  ^domi 
neering  woman  in  black  satin^  before  the  Morris 
House  gate. 

Large  Woman.  This  is  the  Hatfield,  is  it  not? 

Member  of  Class.  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon  ? 
No,  it 's  the  Morris. 

Large  Woman.  Ah  !  I  was  told  it  was  the 
Hatfield. 

Member  of  Class,  simply.  Well,  it 's  not. 

Large  Woman.  And  that  over  there  (point 
ing  to  the  Observatory J,  that  is  the  Lilly  House? 

Member  of  Class.  No,  that 's  the  Observa 
tory.  Lilly  Hall  is  up  farther.  It's  just  be 
yond  the  Dickinson — no,  the  Lawrence — I 
mean  the  Hubbard  Home ! 


AT   COMMENCEMENT 

Large  Woman.  And  where  is  the  Hubbard 
House  ? 

Member  of  Class.  Oh,  dear  !  (pulls  herself  to 
gether  with  an  effort)  it 's  up  in  a  line,  the  one, 
two,  three,  third  from  here. 

Large  Woman.  Thank  you.  And  I  wish  to 
see  the  Botanical  Gardens,  too.  Where  are 
they  ?  (Member  of  Class  points  out  their  posi 
tion.) 

Large  Woman.  And  where  is  the  Landscape 
Garden  ? 

Member  of  Class,  vaguely.  Why,  I  suppose 
it 's  over  there,  too.  I  don't  exactly — it's  all 
landscape  garden,  I  suppose — it 's  not  big — 

Large  Woman,  severely.  I  was  told  there  was 
a  fine  landscape  and  botanical  garden — are 
you  a  member  of  the  college  ? 

Member  of  Class,  leaning  against  the  post. 
Why,  yes,  but  it 's  all  botanical  garden,  for 
that  matter.  ( Catches  sight  of  a  tree  with  a  tin 
label  tied  to  it  and  points  luminously  at  it.)  'That's 
botanical,  you  know — all  the  trees  and  shrubs ! 

Large  Woman,  with  irritation.  I  am  quite 
aware  that  it  is — I  — 

Member  of  Class,  despairingly.  Oh,  excuse 
me,  I  mean  it 's — it 's — /  mean  they  all  have 
labels!  (Large  Woman  stalks  majestically  away  ; 
Member  of  Class  makes  a  few  incoherent  gestures 

[317] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

in  the  air,  murmurs,  "  I  am  such  a  fool,  but  I  'm 
so  tired ! "  'Throws  out  her  hands  wearily  and 
trails  into  the  Morris  House.) 


THE   TENTH   STORY 


THE   END    OF 


X 

THE  END   OF   IT 

f    •     ^HERE  are  two  methods  of  con- 
i          ducting  a  class  supper.  The  first  is 
I          something  like  this:  you  pick  out 
-^-       three  utterly  unrelated  girls  who 
never  had  anything  to  do  with  one  another  in 
their  lives,  and  call  them  the  supper  commit 
tee;  you  pick  out  two  clever,  uninterested  girls 
and  call  them  the  toast  committee;  you  pick 
out  an  extremely  busy  girl  who  lives  half  a 
mile  off  the  campus  and  call  her  the  seating 
committee;  you  pick  out  a  popular  girl  who  is 
supposed  to  be  humorous  because  she  laughs 
at  everybody's  jokes  and  knows  one  comic 
song,  and  call  her  the  toast-mistress. 

And  this  is  the  result  of  it:  The  supper 
committee  meets,  wonders  what  under  heaven 
induced  the  president  to  appoint  the  other 
two,  finds  out  what  caterer  they  had  last  year, 
and  after  a  little  perfunctory  argument  em 
ploys  him  again  without  further  action,  with 
the  result  that  one  end  of  the  table  has  five 
kinds  of  ice  cream  and  the  other  a  horrifying 
recurrence  of  lukewarm  croquettes;  the  toast 
committee  spends  a  great  deal  of  time  in  hunt 
ing  out  extremely  subtle  quotations  from 
Shakespeare  and  Omar  Khayyam,  with  the 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

result  that  no  one  of  the  toasters  gets  the  least 
idea  of  how  she  is  expefted  to  elaborate  her 
theme;  the  seating  committee  is  so  harassed 
by  everybody  that  she  gives  up  her  diagram 
in  despair,  and  successive  girls  erase  and  sign 
and  re-erase  till  nobody  but  the  three  or  four 
leading  sets  in  the  class  are  satisfied,  and  they 
are  displeased  because  the  toasters  are  either 
put  in  a  line  at  the  head  or  scattered  about  the 
tables,  and  that  separates  them  from  their  im 
mediate  cliques;  the  toast-mistress  turns  out 
to  be  more  appreciative  than  constructive,  and 
worries  her  friends  and  bores  her  enemies  be 
yond  previous  conception.  The  main  body  of 
unimportant  necessary  people  are  crowded  off 
by  themselves  and  feel  somewhat  flat  and 
heavy  and  irritated  at  the  noisy  groups  beyond 
them;  the  toasts  are  apt  to  be  a  little  sad  and 
vague  because  the  girls  don't  fit  them  and  talk 
too  much  about  enduring  friendships,  the 
larger  life,  four  years  of  stimulating  rivalry, 
and  alma  mater.  Why  they  do  all  this  at  this 
season  and  this  alone,  only  the  Lord  who 
made  them  knows. 

But  Ninety-yellow  did  not  employ  this 
method.  It  occurred  to  Theodora  somewhat 
originally,  perhaps,  as  she  looked  around  her 
that  last  Tuesday  evening,  that  a  better  class 


THE   END   OF   IT 

supper  was  never  arranged.  It  can  hardly  be 
asserted  that  it  was  a  really  good  supper,  for 
it  is  to  be  doubted  if  a  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  women  ever  sat  down  to  a  really  good  sup 
per;  but  there  was  almost  enough  of  it,  and  it 
was  very  nearly  hot.  Kathie  Sewall  had  picked 
the  supper  committee  well,  and  they  knew 
one  another  thoroughly  enough  to  give  it  all 
to  the  chairman  to  do  and  to  make  fun  of  her 
till  she  was  spurred  on  to  a  really  noble  ef 
fort.  She  knew  that  it  is  always  damp  and  cold 
class  supper  night,  and  planned  accordingly. 
Kitty  Louisa  Hofs tetter  managed  the  toasts, 
and  though  Kitty  Louisa  was  uneven  and  a 
little  vulgar  at  times,  she  was  clever  in  her 
unexpected  hail-fellow-well-met  way  and  pop 
ular  with  the  class  for  the  most  part.  She  had 
a  genius  for  puns  of  the  kind  that  grow  better 
as  they  grow  worse,  and  they  were  shamelessly 
italicized  in  the  toast-cards,  which  caused  great 
merriment  before  the  toasts  had  begun.  And 
the  seating  was  very  well  done,  for  the  class 
was  nicely  broken  up  and  mixed  about  among 
the  tables  till  everybody  was  within  four  or 
five  of  a  reasonably  important  person. 

As  for  the  toast-mistress — well,  you  see, 
Theodora's  opinion  of  her  might  have  been 
a  trifle  exaggerated,  for  she  was  Theodora's 
[  3^3  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

best  friend.  How  little  she  had  changed,  Theo 
thought,  as  she  watched  her  rumple  her  hair 
in  the  same  funny,  boyish  way  that  she  had 
freshman  year.  Theo  had  seen  her  first  in  the 
main  hall,  floating  with  the  current  of  fresh 
men  that  pushed  its  way  almost  four  hundred 
strong  to  meet  its  class  officer  and  find  out 
that  O.  G.  meant  Old  Gymnasium.  That  far- 
off  freshman  year!  Theo  smelt  again  the  clean, 
washed  floor;  saw  again  the  worried  shepherds 
herding  their  flocks  into  the  scheduled  stalls 
and  praying  that  the  parents  might  go  soon 
and  leave  their  darlings,  if  misunderstood,  at 
least  unencumbered ;  heard  again  the  buzz  and 
hum  of  a  thousand  chattering,  scuffling  girls, 
bubbling  over  with  a  hundred  greetings  for 
each  other. 

"Hello,  Peggy!  Peggy!  I  say,  hello 
Peggy!" 

"Oh,  hello!  Have  a  good  time?" 

"Grand!  Did  you?" 

"Perfectly  fine — I  saw  Ursula  and  Dodo 
and— Oh,  Ursula!  hello!  Here  I  am!" 

"Why,  Peggy  Putney,  you  dear  old  thing! 
When  did  you  come?  They  say  you  're  in 
the  Hatfield — how  did  you  get  there?" 

"Two  ahead  of  me  and  they  dropped  out. 
Miss  Roberts  only  just  told  me — " 


THE   END   OF   IT 

Theodora  had  felt  very  lonesome  and  home 
sick  just  then — everybody  but  herself  knew 
so  many  people !  And  then  Virginia  had  hap 
pened  along  and  jostled  her  and  begged  par 
don,  and  they  had  fallen  into  a  conversation 
on  the  relative  merits  of  the  Dewey  and  the 
Hatfield.  Later  they  had  studied  Livy  to 
gether  and  confided  their  difficulties  to  each 
other.  Virginia's  mother  was  a  Unitarian  and 
her  father  was  an  Ethical  Culturist,  and  her 
room-mate  was  a  High  Church  Episcopalian 
and  never  ate  meat  in  Lent !  She  thought  Vir 
ginia  would  very  probably  be  damned,  if  not 
in  the  next  life,  certainly  in  this,  and  she  inti 
mated  as  much.  Virginia  thought  it  was  very 
hard  to  live  with  somebody  who  disapproved  of 
you  so  much. 

Theodora  had  been  brought  up  to  be  a  neat, 
self-helpful  little  person,  and  her  room-mate, 
Edith  Bliss,  had  never  even  seen  her  bed  made 
up  and  left  her  clothes  in  piles  on  the  floor  just 
as  she  stepped  out  of  them.  She  was  horribly 
homesick  and  wept  quarts  every  Sunday  af 
ternoon,  and  confided  to  Theodora  in  mo 
ments  of  hysterical  relaxation  that  she  thought 
every  girl  owed  it  to  herself  to  have  soup  and 
black  coffee  for  dinner  and  that  she  was  going 
to  wire  Papa  to  take  her  home  immediately. 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Theo  looked  at  her  now,  eagerly  devour 
ing  a  doubtful  lobster  concoclion  and  openly 
congratulating  herself  on  the  olives  at  her  left. 
She  was  fond  of  Frankfurters  now,  was  Edith, 
and  had  recently  alarmed  the  authorities  by 
her  ingenuous  scheme  for  annexing  a  night- 
lunch  cart  and  keeping  it  on  the  campus:  it 
would  have  been  so  nice,  she  said  regretfully, 
to  slip  out  and  get  a  Frankfurter  between 
hours ! 

How  pretty  the  Gym  looked!  The  juniors 
had  decorated  it  as  well  as  they  could  at  odd 
minutes,  and  they  had  lingered  in  a  bunch  as 
the  class  came  in  to  lean  over  the  balcony  and 
sing  to  them. 

Theodora  remembered  how  the  Gym  had 
looked  the  night  of  the  sophomore  reception: 
all  light  and  music  and  girls  and  a  wonder  of 
excitement.  She  had  never  had  an  evening 
dress  before,  and  her  little  square-necked  or 
gandie  had  been  dearer  to  her  than  any  other 
gown  before  or  since.  They  played  Rastus  on 
Parade,  and  she  had  such  nice  partners  and 
some  of  the  girls  were  so  lovely  and  had  such 
white,  beautiful  shoulders — they  seemed  to 
count  evening  dress  but  a  slight  and  ordinary 
thing.  By  junior  year  house-dances  are  wont 
to  pall,  and  seniors  have  been  known  to  make 


THE   END   OF    IT 

rabbits  and  read  Kipling  in  preference;  even 
among  the  freshmen  Theodora  had  found 
some  disillusioned  souls  who  lamented  the 
absence  of  men  and  found  the  sophomore 
reception  slow! 

Across  the  table  an  odd,  distinguished-look 
ing  girl,  with  a  clever  face  and  dark,  short 
sighted  eyes,  smiled  at  her,  and  Theo's  thoughts 
flashed  back  to  that  great  day  when  she  first 
really  loved  the  class — the  day  of  the  Big 
Game.  What  a  funny,  snub-nosed  little  no 
body  Marietta  Hinks  had  been  then  !  But 
how  she  played  !  How  she  dodged  and  dou 
bled  and  bounced  the  ball,  and  how  they 
cheered  her ! 

Oh,  here's  to  Mari^/ta, 

For  we  shall  not  soon  forget  her  — 

Well,  well,  how  they  had  grown  up  !  Now 
she  was  "  Miss  Root "  to  the  little,  dark-eyed 
girl  in  the  back  seat  in  chapel,  who  smiled  so 
shyly  at  her  when  the  seniors  led  out  down 
the  middle  aisle.  Theo  was  wearing  her  roses 
to-night,  and  as  she  scratched  off  a  little  note 
to  thank  her  she  had  seemed  to  see  herself, 
another  little  dark-eyed  girl,  sending  anony 
mous  roses  to  Ursula  Wyckoff.  Dear  me  ! 
would  anybody  ever  again  combine  such 
graces  of  mind  and  body  as  that  ornament 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

of  Ninety-purple  ?  She  had  gone  on  wheel- 
rides  with  Theo,  and  once  she  had  asked  her 
over  to  wait  on  the  juniors  at  a  spread — 
Theo  had  sat  up  and  got  her  light  reported 
in  order  to  write  home  about  it. 

There  are  those,  I  understand,  who  disap 
prove  strongly  of  this  attitude  of  Theodora's 
happy  year :  dogmatic  young  women  who  have 
not  learned  much  about  life  and  soured,  mid 
dle-aged  women  who  have  forgotten.  I  am 
told  that  they  would  consider  Theodora's 
adoration  morbid  and  use  long  words  about 
her — long  words  about  a  freshman  !  I  have 
always  been  sorry  for  these  unfortunate  peo 
ple:  their  chances  for  reconstructing  Human 
Nature  seem  to  me  so  relatively  slight. 

When  Theo  had  gone  home  that  summer 
with  hands  almost  as  well  cared  for  as  Ursula's, 
sleek,  gathered-in  locks,  and  a  gratifying  hold 
on  the  irregular  verbs  (Ursula  spoke  beautiful 
French),  her  mother  had  whimsically  inquired 
if  Miss  Wyckoff  could  not  be  induced  to  re 
main  in  Northampton  indefinitely  and  con 
tinue  her  unscheduled  courses  !  But  perhaps 
she  was  a  morbid  mother. 

Her  mother  !  The  plates  and  flowers  swam 
before  Theodora's  misted  eyes,  and  the  sight 
of  Virginia — so  kind  that  year — brought  back 

[328  ] 


THE   END   OF   IT 

somehow  those  waves  of  desolation  that  would 
come  over  her  again  and  again,  in  leclure 
rooms,  in  her  own  dear  room,  at  meals — all 
that  clouded  sophomore  year.  It  was  just  as 
her  good  fortune  came  through  the  mail  to 
her — a  room  in  the  Nicest  House — that  her 
mother  died,  and  rooms  mattered  little  to 
Theo,  then.  There  were  kindly  aunts  and 
other  children,  and  she  was  not  needed  at 
home;  so  it  seemed  best  to  go  on,  and  she 
had  come  up  the  steps  of  the  Nicest  House, 
a  little  black-dressed  figure,  and  into  the  arms 
of  the  Nicest  Woman. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  never  a 
room  so  cheerful,  nor  pictures  so  lovely,  nor 
a  fire  so  red,  nor  tea  and  bread  and  butter  so 
good,  nor  a  smile  so  comfortable  as  the  Nicest 
Woman's.  Mademoiselle  and  Fraulein  and 
Miss  Roberts  were  sweet  and  kind,  and  the 
girls  did  all  they  could,  but  it  was  to  the  Nicest 
Woman  that  one  came  when  conditions  and 
warnings  were  in  the  air  or  one's  head  ached 
or  one  had  eaten  too  much  fudge  or  been  an 
noyed  by  somebody's  banjo  practice.  When 
the  seniors  of  the  Nicest  House  were  eating 
and  laughing  there  at  night,  it  was  a  gay  room 
— the  Nicest  Woman's;  but  it  was  very  dim 
and  quiet  in  the  dusk,  when  Theodora  slipped 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

in  by  herself  with  reddened  lids,  and  sat  on  the 
couch,  and  they  talked  of  things  that  started 
to  be  sad  but  somehow  always  turned  out 
cheerful;  for  when  it  was  about  the  children 
and  Will  at  Yale  little  jokes  were  sure  to 
come  up,  and  when  Theo  wondered  if  perhaps 
she  had  n't  been  careless  about  writing  home, 
and  if  Mother  had  gotten  more  letters  in 
the  spring,  maybe — the  conversation  always 
changed,  and  she  found  herself  feeling  so  glad 
and  thankful  that  she  'd  gone  right  home  in 
June  and  not  visited  at  Virginia's. 

Virginia  had  gone  into  Phi  Kappa  that  win 
ter,  and  Theo  had  been  so  proud  of  her.  She 
was  in  the  first  five,  and  as  she  really  had  n't 
expecled  it  at  all  it  was  quite  exciting.  Ade 
laide  Carew  went  in  too,  and  though  she  went 
about  with  the  seniors  a  great  deal  and  called 
most  of  her  class  "  Miss,"  she  was  much  more 
generally  liked  than  in  her  freshman  year,  and 
Virginia  had  got  to  know  her  better  and  better. 
Through  her  Theo  had  seen  more  of  Ade 
laide,  and  she  had  been  amazed  to  find  out 
how  really  kind-hearted  and  human  she  was 
beneath 'her  unapproachable  ways. 

But  then,  you  never  could  tell — girls  were 
so  queer!  Only  last  night,  when  they  were 
walking  about  under  the  lanterns  after  the 

[330] 


THE   END   OF   IT 

concert,  she  and  Virginia  and  Adelaide,  with 
two  of  the  junior  ushers,  and  the  juniors,  so 
phisticated  young  people,  had  cynically  sug 
gested  that  perhaps  they  'd  better  take  them 
selves  away  in  order  that  the  three  might  seek 
out  their  Ivy  and  bedew  it  with  their  final  tears, 
Adelaide  had  coughed  a  little  huskily  and  sug 
gested  that  perhaps  when  they  'd  planted  their 
own  Ivy  they  would  n't  be  feeling  so  gay ! 
They  had  stared  at  her  blankly,  hesitated, 
decided  that  coming  from  such  a  source  it 
must  have  been  an  extraordinarily  acute  sar 
casm,  and  gone  away  giggling,  leaving  Theo 
to  wonder  and  Adelaide  to  flush  and  talk  very 
hard  about  Bar  Harbor  and  the  comfort  of  a 
big  room  all  to  yourself  once  more. 

Such  a  strange  room-mate  as  Theo  had  had 
that  year — she  seemed  fated  to  room  with 
girls  who  had  never  made  up  their  beds.  This 
one  had  lived  freshman  year  with  friends  in  the 
town,  and  had  had  everything  done  for  her, 
and  when  Theo  asked  her  one  day  if  campus 
life  was  wearing  on  her,  she  had  turned  two 
stormy  gray  eyes  on  her  and  burst  out,  "Oh, 
no,  Theodora,  but  I  am  so  deadly  tired  of 
picking  up  my  night-gown  every  single  morn 
ing,  I  think  I  shall  die!" 

On  one  historic  occasion,  early  in  the  year, 

[331  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

Theo  had  happened  to  make  up  her  bed  for 
her,  and  upon  her  pleased  recognition  of  the 
fresh  linen  it  had  come  out  that  she  had  been 
for  some  weeks  accustomed  to  change  her  up 
per  sheet  and  leave  the  under  one  undisturbed 
on  the  bed — it  had  seemed  more  logical,  she 
said,  and  how  was  she  to  know  ?  They  had 
teased  her  about  it  till  the  Nicest  Woman  in 
terfered  and  fined  every  girl  who  mentioned 
it,  and  they  bought  Sentimental  'Tommy  with 
the  money,  and  read  it  evenings  in  the  Nicest 
Woman's  room  after  supper. 

Well,  well,  they  'd  sit  about  her  fire  no 
more,  as  the  poem  said  that  somebody  wrote 
to  go  with  the  silver  tea-ball  the  seniors  gave 
her  when  she  served  them  their  last  tea. 
They  'd  come  in  no  more  after  Alpha  and 
Phi  Kapp  to  tell  her  all  about  it — how  nice 
she  had  been  when  Theo  got  into  Alpha ! 
That  was  junior  year  and  they  took  her  to 
Boyden's  for  supper,  and  her  bowl  and 
pitcher  were  full  of  violets  for  days.  Every 
body  seemed  so  glad,  and  Martha  Sutton  had 
pinned  her  own  pin  on  Theo's  red  blouse. 
Kathie  Sewall  had  taken  her  over — nobody 
dreamed  that  Kathie  would  be  senior  presi 
dent  then — and  what  a  hand-shaking  there 
had  been  !  And  such  a  funny,  clever  play,  with 


THE   END   OF   IT 

butlers  and  burglars  and  lady's-maids — it  was 
illustrative  of  American  literature,  she  learned 
later,  but  it  was  not  a  pedantic  illustration. 

Theodora  loved  plays,  and  she  had  delighted 
in  her  very  humble  part  in  the  House  play.  She 
was  a  little  house-maid,  and  said  only,  "Yes, 
madam,"  and  "No,  madam,"  and,  "Oh,  sir, 
how  can  you — a  poor  girl  like  me  !"  but  she 
had  a  great  American  Beauty  and  two  bunches 
of  violets,  and  she  sent  the  programme  home. 
Next  to  its  basket-ball  decorations  she  remem 
bered  the  Gym  arranged  for  a  play,  with  the 
running-track  turned  into  boxes  and  the  girls 
prettier  than  ever  against  the  screens  and  pil 
lows.  She  had  been  chairman  of  the  stage-set 
ting  committee,  and  the  Monthly  had  espe 
cially  commended  the  boudoir  scene. 

Were  they  ready  for  the  toasts  so  soon  ? 
Where  had  the  time  gone?  she  thought,  as 
Virginia,  with  solemn  pomp,  called  upon  Miss 
Farwell  to  respond  to  "Our  Team."  Dear  old 
Grace — she  stammered  a  little  when  she  was 
excited,  and  she  was  not  the  most  fluent  of 
speakers,  but  they  cheered  her  to  the  echo. 
"Team  !  Team  !  Team  !"  they  called,  and  the 
teams,  freshman  and  sophomore,  Regulars  and 
Subs,  had  to  stand  on  their  chairs  and  be  sung 
to.  As  Theo  balanced  on  a  tottering  seat,  she 
[  333  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

caught  sight  of  a  crowd  of  girls  moving  to 
ward  the  Gym,  and  as  they  sat  down  a  shout 
from  below  greeted  them : 

Oh,  here's  to  Ninety-j/£//0w;, 
And  her  praise  we'll  ever  tell — oh, 
Drink  her  down,  drink  her  down,  drink  her  down, 
down,  down! 

A  cheerful,  aimless  creature  at  the  bottom 
of  one  of  the  great  tables,  whose  one  faculty 
was  for  improvised  doggerel,  instructed  her 
neighbors  rapidly,  and  they  sent  back  a  tune 
ful  courtesy: 

Oh,  here's  the  Junior  Ushers, 
And  I  tell  you  they  are  rushers ! 

Theodora  had  "ushed,"  in  classical  phrase, 
in  her  day,  and  the  bustle  of  last  year,  so  much 
more  exciting  somehow  than  this  one,  came 
back  to  her.  Her  little,  white-ribboned  stick 
was  packed  now — in  fact,  everything  was 
packed:  she  was  going  away  for  good!  Some 
one  else  would  lounge  on  the  window-seat  in 
her  room  in  the  Nicest  House,  and  light  the 
cunning  fire.  .  .  . 

Who  was  this  ?  Oh,  this  was  Sallie  Wilkes 
Emory,  responding  to  "The  Faculty."  Kitty 
Louisa,  whose  soul  knew  not  reverence,  had 
attached  to  this  toast  the  pregnant  motto, 

[334] 


THE   END   OF   IT 

'That  we  may  go  forward  with  Faculties  unim 
paired,  an  excerpt  from  one  of  the  President's 
best-known  chapel  prayers,  and  Sallie  was  de 
veloping  the  theme  in  what  she  assured  them 
was  a  very  connotative  manner.  Theo  saw 
them  pass  in  review  before  her,  those  devoted 
educators,  from  her  dazed  freshman  Livy  to 
her  despairing  senior  Philosophy — that  was 
over,  at  least !  Theodora  was  not  of  a  techni 
cally  philosophical  temperament.  Sallie  was 
quoting  liberally  from  a  recent  famous  essay 
of  her  own :  The  Moral  Law,  or  the  End-slim 
of  Human  Aftion  According  to  Kant,  apropos 
of  which  she  had  remarked  to  the  commenda 
tory  professor  that  she  was  glad  if  somebody 
understood  it !  Sallie  was  a  great  girl — how 
grand  she  had  been  in  the  play  !  Theo  had 
been  in  the  mob  herself,  having  first  tried 
for  every  part,  and  had  enjoyed  every  minute 
of  it,  from  the  first  rehearsal  to  the  last  dab 
of  make-up.  She  had  been  an  attendant  and 
had  n't  an  idea  how  pretty  she  looked,  nor 
how  many  people  spoke  of  her  and  called 
her  graceful. 

It  may  have  been  because  Theo  had  so  few 
ideas  about  herself  that  she  had  so  many 
friends.  And  how  many  she  had  !  She  took 
great  pride  in  them,  those  fine,  strong,  good- 

[  335  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

looking  girls  that  hailed  her  from  all  direc 
tions,  and  always  wanted  a  dance  or  a  row  or 
a  skating  afternoon  with  her.  She  wondered 
if  anybody  so  ordinary  —  for  Theo  knew  she 
was  n't  clever — ever  had  so  many  jolly  good 
friends.  There  was  the  Mandolin  Club,  now  — 
all  friends  of  hers.  She  got  on  late  in  junior 
year  and  played  in  the  spring  concert.  Her 
father  came  up  and  said  he  'd  never  seen  such 
a  pretty  house  in  his  life — packed  from  or 
chestra  circle  to  balcony  with  fluffy  girls  alter 
nated  with  dapper,  black-coated  youths.  He 
gave  Theo  such  a  darling  white  gown  for  it,  all 
ruffled  with  white  ribbon,  and  she  had  her  pic 
ture  taken  in  it,  holding  the  mandolin,  and  sent 
it  to  him  in  a  big  white  vellum  frame  covered 
with  yellow  chrysanthemums,  with  "Smith" 
scrawled  in  yellow  across  one  corner.  He  kept 
it  on  his  desk  and  was  tremendously  proud 
when  his  friends  asked  about  it. 

Here  were  the  class  histories.  Theodora 
thought  she  listened,  but  though  she  laughed 
with  the  rest  and  applauded  the  grinds,  it  was 
her  own  history  that  she  was  reading  as  face  af 
ter  face  recalled  to  her  some  joke  or  mistake  or 
good  luck.  Not  that  it  was  sad — oh,  dear,  no! 
If  any  member  of  the  class  of  Ninety-yellow 
dared  to  be  sad  that  night  there  was  a  fine,  and 

[336] 


THE   END   OF    IT 

more  than  that,  the  studied  coldness  of  the 
class  directed  toward  her:  it  was  an  orgy,  not  an 
obsequy,  as  Virginia  elegantly  put  it.  Just  as 
the  junior  history,  which  is  always  the  best/or 
some  unexplained  reason  —  perhaps  because 
of  the  Prom — was  finished,  there  was  a  loud 
knock,  and  a  big  bunch  of  yellow  roses  from  the 
class  that  was  having  a  decennial  supper  some 
where  was  brought  in  by  a  useful  sophomore. 
They  clapped  it  and  sent  some  one  back  to 
thank  them — a  point  of  etiquette  that  some 
self-centred  classes  have  been  known  to  omit 
— and  then  they  remembered  that  Ninety- 
green  was  supping  at  its  first  reunion  in  the 
Old  Gym,  and  sent  over  some  of  the  table 
flowers  to  them.  Virginia  motioned  to  Theo, 
and  proud  of  the  mission  and  blushing  a  little 
at  the  eyes  that  turned  to  her  as  she  went,  she 
took  them  over.  They  clapped  and  sang  to 

her: 

Oh,  here's  to  Theodora^ 

And  we're  very  glad  we  sor  her  ! 

Martha  Sutton  waved  to  her  and  the  toast- 
mistress  thanked  her  for  the  class,  and  she 
went  back — alone,  because,  being  an  older 
class,  Ninety-green  did  n't  need  a  delegate. 
On  the  way,  two  juniors  met  her,  and  they 
condoled  with  her  cheerfully  :  "  How  do  you 

[  337  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

feel,  Theo  dear  ?  Is  n't  it  kind  of  dreadful  ? 
Do  you  keep  thinking  it 's  the  last  time  ? 
Goodness — I  should!"  One  of  them  threw 
a  sympathetic  arm  over  her  shoulder  and 
looked  at  the  moon,  but  Theo  grinned  a  lit 
tle  and  said  that  she  was  tired  as  a  dog  and 
that  if  there  was  one  place  in  the  world  she 
wanted  it  was  her  room  At  Home.  And  as 
the  juniors  gaped  at  this  matter-of-fact  atti 
tude,  Theodora  added,  pausing  at  the  Gym 
door,  "  Of  course  I  Ve  had  a  perfectly  grand 
time  here,  and  all  that,  but  I  Ve  been  here 
four  years  and  that 's  about  long  enough,  you 
know.  And  they  want  me,  of  course,  and — I 
want  to  come  !  I  think  it  gets  a  little — well, 
toward  the  end,  you  know — " 

But  Theo  was  tired,  and  so  are  seniors  all, 
and  until  three  or  four  generations  of  them 
have  learned  how  to  do  it  easily,  so  will  they  be. 

They  were  doing  stunts  upstairs :  Clara 
Sheldon  had  seen  Cissie  Loftus  who  had  seen 
Maggie  Cline  who  sang  Just  tell  them  that  you 
saw  me,  and  Clara,  who  was  the  most  tailor- 
made  and  conventional  creature  imaginable  to 
the  outward  eye,  was  forced  by  those  from 
whose  farther-reaching  scrutiny  she  was  never 
free,  to  imitate  the  imitator  at  all  social  func 
tions  that  admitted  song.  She  used  stiff,  ab- 

[338  ] 


THE  END  OF   IT 

surd  gestures  and  a  breathy  contralto  that 
never  palled  upon  her  friends.  Cynthia  Lov- 
ering  danced  her  graceful  little  Spanish  dance 
for  them,  and  Leslie  Guerineau  told  them  her 
best  darkey  story  in  her  own  delicious  South 
ern  drawl.  And  then  there  was  a  murmur  that 
grew  to  a  voice  that  swelled  into  a  shout  as 
they  drummed  on  the  table  and  called,  "  We 
want  button !  We  want  button !  We  want  but 
ton,  Dutton,  Dutton!" 

She  said  no  ;  that  she  'd  had  a  toast ;  that 
they  knew  all  her  stunts  by  heart — but  they 
hammered  on  her  name  with  the  regularity  of 
a  machine  till  she  got  up  at  last  with  a  sigh 
and,"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  They  wanted 
a  temperance  lecture,  and  she  drooped  her  head 
to  one  side,  and  with  an  ineffably  sickly  smile 
and  a  flat  nasal  drawl  she  told  them  "  haow 
she  'd  been  a-driving  'raound  your  graounds, 
and  they  're  reel  pleasantly  situated,  too,  dears, 
and  your  President,  such  a  ^^gentlemanly  man, 
accompanied  me,  and  pointed  aout  to  me  your 
beeyutiful  homes  and  I  said  to  him, c  Oh,  what 
a  beeyutiful  thought  it  is  that  all  these  hundreds 
of  young  souls  are  a-drinking  water,  nothing 
but  water,  all  the  time  and  every  day  ! ' ' 

She  was  going  to  teach  in  a  stuffy  little 
school  in  the  wilds  of  Maine,  and  Ethel  Eaton, 
[  339  ] 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

who  had  been  taught  in  that  school,  was  going 
to  travel  abroad  for  a  year — it  was  a  strange 
shuffle. 

What,  was  it  half-past  eleven?  Impossible  ! 
But  somebody  had  started  up  their  great  song 
that  had  been  their  pet  one  since  freshman 
year,  and  they  were  shouting  it  till  the  Gym 
rang: 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  yellow  is  on  top^ 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  purple  cannot  drop ; 
We  are  Ninety-yellow  and  our  fame  shall  never  stop, 
'Rah,  'rah,  'rahy  for  the  seniors! 

They  sang  all  the  verses,  and  then  the 
watchman  and  the  superintendent  of  build 
ings,  waiting  like  sleuth-hounds  to  prevent 
any  demonstration  from  without,  gritted  their 
teeth  and  dashed  furiously  down  the  wrong 
stairs  as  Ninety-green,  who  had  softly  assem 
bled  at  the  back  of  the  Gym,  having  come 
from  different  directions,  burst  into  the  tradi 
tional  tribute: 

Oh,  here  '5  to  Ninety-jri/few, 

And  her  fame  we'll  ever  tell — oh! 

"  'Ere,  'ere!  stop  that  now!  Miss  Sutton, 
it  ain't  allowed — will  you  please  to  go  'ome 
quietly!  No,  they  ain't  a-comin'  h'out  till  you 
go — 'e  says  they  ain't!" 
[  340  ] 


THE   END   OF   IT 

"Oh,  come  now!  We  aren't  students  any 
more!  We  can  do  what  we  like — " 

"Oh,  come  on,  girls!  Don't  make  a  fuss; 
we  don't  want  to  stay,  anyhow!" 

They  sang  themselves  away,  and  the  class 
upstairs  looked  around  the  tables  and  thought 
things,  for  it  was  time  to  go.  And  here  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  lose  whatever  friends  I  may  have 
gained  for  Theodora,  for  it  is  necessary  to 
state  that  none  of  those  comprehensive,  sol 
emn  moments  of  farewell,  known  to  us  all  to 
be  the  property  of  departing  seniors,  came  to 
her.  She  was  conscious  of  a  little  vague  ex 
citement,  but  all  the  last  days  had  been  more 
or  less  exciting — generally  less — and  her 
mind  was  occupied  with  irrelevant  details. 
Had  Uncle  Ed  remembered  to  change  at 
Hartford?  Had  Aunt  Kate  packed  her  black 
evening  dress?  Would  the  post-office  forward 
that  note  to  the  little  freshman?  Could  she 
get  Virginia  up  in  time  for  the  9.15?  Had 
she  lost  the  slip  with  the  Nicest  Woman's 
address  on  it?  And  had  she  given  Marietta 
that  senior  picture  yet? 

There  had  been  one  moment  when  her 
throat  had  contracted  and  her  eyelids  had 
crinkled:  it  was  that  very  evening,  when  An 
nie,  the  cook,  had  beckoned  to  her  in  the  hall 

[341  ] 


SMITH   COLLEGE   STORIES 

of  the  Nicest  House,  and  said:  " There 's 
three  o'  them  little  cakes  on  a  plate  on  your 
table.  Miss  The'dora.  I  shan't  be  bakin'  'em 
agin,  an'  I  know  you  do  be  terrible  fond  of 
'em!" 

"Thank  you,  Annie,"  she  had  said,  and 
shaken  her  hand  warmly.  Annie  had  cooked 
fifteen  years  in  the  Nicest  House,  and  what 
she  and  her  mistress  did  n't  know  about  girls 
you  could  put  in  a  salt-spoon.  It  was  n't  every 
girl  that  Annie  liked,  either. 

Grace  was  getting  up,  and  they  stood  a 
moment  irresolutely  by  the  chairs. 

"Let's  make  a  ring,  girls,  and  sing  once 
'round,  and  say  good-by  till  next  year,"  she 
said;  and  then  there  was  a  little  quick  shuf 
fling,  and  the  carefully  divided  sets  got  to 
gether  and  stood  as  they  had  stood  for  the 
last  two  or  three  years.  Theo  took  tight  hold 
of  Virginia  and  Adelaide,  and  they  moved 
slowly  around  the  tables,  a  great  circle  of  girls, 
so  quiet  for  a  moment  that  Ninety-green, 
singing  one  another  home  around  the  campus, 
sounded  as  loud  and  clear  as  their  own  voices 
a  moment  ago.  They  listened  with  a  common 
impulse  as  the  rollicking  Tommy  Atkins  song 
paused  awhile  under  the  Washburn  windows; 
they  had  been  very  fond  of  Ninety-green. 


THE   END   OF   IT 

Ninety-green  she  is  a  winner, 
Ninety-gmTz  she  is  a  star, 
Is  there  anything  agin  her  ? 
No,  we  do  not  think  there  are! 
There  have  been  some  other  classes, 
Other  seniors  have  been  seen, 
But  they  cannot  match  the  lasses 
That  are  wearing  of  the  £ra?«  / 

They  smiled  a  little  and  remembered  the 
great  mass  of  green  flags  and  ribbons  that  had 
waved  to  that  song  in  last  year's  Rally.  But 
they  did  not  answer  with  one  of  their  own;  a 
little  of  the  first  faint  conviction  that  the  college 
owns  all  her  classes,  the  feeling  that  grows  with 
the  years,  came  to  them,  and  as  the  circle  pressed 
closer  and  closer  and  their  steps  fell  into  an  even 
tramp, Grace  called  out,  "Now,  girls, here  's  to 
old  Smith  College ! "  and  they  sent  it  out  over 
the  campus,  so  strong  and  loud  that  the  de 
cennial  people  and  the  groups  of  Ninety-green 
and  the  juniors  and  the  belated  sophomores 
lurking  about  heard  them  and  joined  in: 
Oh,  here  ys  to  old  Smith  College,  drink  her  down  ! 
Oh,  here  9s  to  old  Smith  College,  drink  her  down ! 
Oh,  here 's  to  old  Smith  College, 
For  it 's  where  we  get  our  knowledge, 
Drink  her  down,  drink  her  down,  drink  her  down, 
down,  down  ! 

[  343  ] 


COLLEGE   STORIES 

PUBLISHED  BY 

MESSRS.  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK 


SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

BY 
JOSEPHINE  DODGE  DASKAM 

izmo,  $1.50 

AN  animated  picture  of  a  particularly  aftive-minded 
and  picluresque  community  is  contained  in  Miss 
Daskam's  volume.  "Smith"  may  be  taken  as  an  epitome 
of  the  woman's  college  world;  and  these  ten  stories  have 
a  real  value  accordingly  in  showing  what  the  undergrad 
uate  life  of  many  thousands  of  American  young  women 
really  is  in  its  varied  phases,  illustrating  their  ambitions, 
manners,  occupations,  and  traits. 

The  stories,  however,  show  that  a  good  deal  of  human 
nature  exists  within  college  walls,  and  they  will  certainly 
appeal  as  strongly  to  the  fidlion-lover  as  to  the  sociologist, 
being  written  with  great  cleverness  and  sparkle,  and 
clearly  the  work  of  a  born  writer  of  stories. 

TITLES    OF    THE    STORIES 


The  Emotions  of  a  Sub  -Guard 
A  Case  of  Interference 
Miss  Biddle  of  Bryn  Mawr 
Biscuits  ex  Machina 
The  Education  of  Elizabeth 


A  Family  Affair 

A  Few  Diversions 

The  Evolution  of  Evangeline 

At  Commencement 

The  End  of  It 


OVER 


Princeton 

PRINCETON  STORIES 

BY 
JESSE  LYNCH  WILLIAMS 

<)th  'Thousand 
izmo,  $1.00 

TTERE  is  the  evanescent  charm,  the  touch  of  poetry 
•1  •*-  and  sentiment,  that  pervades  a  thousand  unpoetic 
and  rather  reserved  young  men.  You  will  find  here  the 
good  fellowship  depicted  without  any  rant  about  it. 
There  is  n't  a  prig  in  these  stories,  .  .  .  that  are  well 
written  and  well  constructed,  judged  from  the  standard 
of  good  American  short-story  writers. — Droch  in  Life. 

'TpHEY  breathe  a  spirit  of  commendable  vigor  and 
-•-     manliness.  Princeton  men  are  fortunate  in  having 
the  life  of  their  college  so  favorably  presented  to  the 
outside  world.  —  Atlantic  Monthly. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  FRESHMAN 

BY 
JESSE  LYNCH  WILLIAMS 

Illustrated,  12  mo,  $1.25 

THE  new  story  of  college  life  by  the  author  of  "Prince 
ton  Stories"  is  a  stirring  tale  of  experiences  at  col 
lege,  and  has  already  been  pronounced  (by  the  New  York 
Evening  Sun)  "a  better  picture  of  college  life  than  the 
same  author's  'Princeton  Stories'"  (which  is  now  in  its 
ninth  thousand).  The  Independent  says :  "Hazing,  the  ups 
and  downs  of  athletics,  manliness  and  boyishness  happily 
blended,  escapades  and  adventures  —  all  tending  to  the 
building  up  of  a  typical  American  character,  brim  the 
book  with  genuine  life." 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  PUBLISHERS 
153—157  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


"Taoiarestf- 


32166 


